


Pillar of Despair

by athina39 (setosdarkness)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Mechas, Multi, Original work - Freeform, science vs magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:52:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 133,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setosdarkness/pseuds/athina39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pillar towers over the expanse of barren land, like a lance thrown from a vengeful heaven. Earth might be nothing but a forsaken wasteland, but humanity has always found a way to rise up from despair. And now, the world is ruled by underground cities hidden from the acid rains, poisonous air, huge machines devised to be piloted by only teenagers deciding results on squabbles over territories and technologies. </p><p>The Pillar remains standing - a reminder that this world is living on borrowed time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. turn 01: first fall

**Author's Note:**

> I've been very busy this past year, but I'm trying my best to get back into writing for my fandoms, old and new, finish my WIPs and stuff...
> 
> But instead what comes out is this very elaborate dystopia setting :/
> 
> • some chapters are still WIP  
> • chapter 14 starts the 5-chapter interlude between "Book 1 - Turns" & "Book 2 - Stations" for this long-ass work.

••• 

**Pillar of Despair** **  
**turn 01: _first fall_

•••  
  


 _pilot_. Iris Malach  
 _sphere_. ANGEL  
 _rank_. Central Tower - 09  
  
•••  
  
Jerk to the right in time to avoid a barrage of the enemy's ammunition—that's close, too close—and she dimly hears the digital voice calmly informing her of the damage she suffered from the attack just now. She struggles to keep her eyes open—it's tough, especially since the left lens of her eyeglasses is cracked in the middle, but she manages somehow—and swallows her sigh of relief at the visual confirmation of the unmoving enemy.  
  
The wires and connecting cables hiss in protest, but her machine nevertheless cooperates to take uneven steps away from the enemy robot. There's a sick, gurgling sound that accompanies each backward movement; it takes nearly her entire concentration to keep her eyes focused on the displays in front of her instead of allowing her gaze to stray downward. She isn't looking forward to finding out how bloodied and damaged her legs are at the moment—performing unbalanced pirouettes and jumps to land blows is surprisingly difficult even with the assistance of the latest technology, apparently.  
  
Once she's one hundred meters away from the isolated, incapacitated target, she receives the authorization to fire the Zwei Cannon from the Central Tower. She makes sure to avoid fumbling with the control sequence—it's her third time operating this machine, so any mistakes will surely be subject to reprimand—and only once she hears her machine's digital voice confirmation of the weapon change does she allow herself to let her relieved sigh escape from her lips.  
  
With the machine already automatically locking on the target, the only thing she needs to do next is to press the final button to completely obliterate the enemy.  
  
[MISSION COMPLETE] flashes in the display screens, her superiors at the Central Tower are giving her the instructions to return to the base, but all she can think of is that she's still, still, alive.  
  
Iris Malach hates this world.  
  
•  
  
"How is ANGEL?"   
  
Iris almost rolls her eyes at the question. They're not even pretending to care about the pilots, are they? But Iris controls herself—doesn't roll her eyes derisively, doesn't swat the hands securing the bandages on her left thigh, doesn't spit in the face of the doctor who doesn't even ask about the patient's condition.  
  
"It's the same as last month," Iris drawls after a drawn-out minute, and doesn't say anything more. There's no point to elaborate: on how difficult it was to quickly backpedal on rough terrain, on how painful it was for the cables to push and pull at her limbs with each sudden movement, on how frightening it was to hold a weapon of mass destruction in her hands that could accidentally eradicate an entire country if she wasn't careful with the controls.  
  
The doctor hums at her disinterested answer and Iris wants to shake her by the shoulders. She is sedated though, the painkillers pulling the curtains of her consciousness down. She doesn't have the energy to lift her arms, to wrap her fingers around the doctor's neck, to make another person understand a fraction of the ache running up and down her spine.  
  
Iris hates her.  
  
She hates a lot of things here, and it's not entirely inaccurate for her to say that she hates the world.  
  
This incredibly broken world where blueprints for SPHERES were discovered. This incredibly greedy world where countries raced to build the fascinating machines even though nobody has any fucking clue what the SPHERES are actually for. This incredibly fucked-up world where the built SPHERES can only move when piloted by teenagers like her.  
  
Iris hates this world.  
  
•  
  
At seventeen, Iris is approaching the precipice of the transition in-between her teenage years and adulthood. The knowledge is enough to keep her boiling emotions at bay. It's only a few more months until she turns eighteen. Just a little more.  
  
Unlike the teenagers that have walked and hated this world centuries before, Iris longs for adulthood for an entirely different reason. She isn't interested in alcohol or cars—aside from a couple of instances of the so-called 'social drinking', aside from when she spots a gallant-looking limousine pulling up the Central Tower's arrival area. She isn't even interested in the so-called independence from one's family that comes along with the coming of age.  
  
But then again, unlike centuries before, this world has grown incredibly cruel to teenagers.  
  
It's just a few more months until her body stops expressing the Sphere gene. She isn't particularly sure with the specific details, but from what she understands, piloting the SPHERE is because of that troublesome Sphere gene that is only expressed during one's teenage years.  
  
Iris clenches her hands into fists, or at least, tries to. She is still confined to her treatment room and they apparently thought it was fine to paralyze certain parts of her body to make sure she doesn't make any 'unnecessary' movements.  
  
...It's not like she's that excited to heal and return to the battlefield.  
  
It's been two weeks since her barely-passed mission and the visitor's chair hasn't been pulled out even once.  
  
Iris hates this world.  
  
•  
  
Instead of spending hours reading the mission mechanics over and over—a practice adopted by all of the other pilots, she's been told countless times before—Iris opts to spend the night before her mission with her bed pulled up next to the largest glass window in her government-issued room. She's almost tempted to break the windows, just so she can see how the outside air actually feels against her skin. It's nighttime so there's only an eerie darkness stretching out in front of her; she can't see it, but she knows that there are only a handful of buildings between the Central Tower and the distant horizon.   
  
There are differences, depending on the country and its technological advancements, but most of the remaining countries in the world have already completed underground cities. Living above ground is treated as something special, like a privilege. She doesn't understand what's so special about being able to live in the few existing buildings above-ground. It's not like there are any breathtaking sights to behold—unless she counts the times when she choked on her own breath at the sight of huge machines fighting each other to death.  
  
Iris constantly tells her family left behind in the underground city that there's nothing that can be considered as a blessing in living above the ground, tells her jealous ex-classmates that there's nothing fabulous about living in spaciously empty quarters provided by the government, tells her impressed childhood friends that there's nothing to be proud of being a teenage hero who defeats other teenage heroes from other countries.  
  
They never listen to her though. They always remind her—excited voices crystal clear, thanks to the advanced fiber network connecting the phones even across hundreds of kilometers below—that she's incredibly lucky for a chance to live a life with both purpose and generous sponsorship.  
  
It's only four months until her birthday and then she'll be back to them. Participating in the SPHERE program guarantees the pilot and its family lifetime support from the government, so Iris needs to make sure to enjoy the rest of her life underground.  
  
She shifts a bit, bumping her forehead against the reinforced glass, her new eyeglasses clanking lightly with the motion. She looks down at her healed, bandage-free thighs and resists the urge to poke and squeeze the excess fat. She gained weight from spending too much time recovering, and she just hopes that her uniform won't feel too tight tomorrow.  
  
...Tomorrow.  
  
Iris shifts again. Her hands reach back to comb her hair, brown eyes looking at anything but the mission mechanics in one thick pile at the foot of her bed.  
  
She isn't worried at all. The enemies for tomorrow will come from Grand Romania—a country that she managed to defeat on her first mission when she was still a bumbling beginner. Grand Romania's SPHERES are somehow lacking firepower and flexibility... or so Iris heard. In any case, Central Tower's decision to send her, the lowest-ranked pilot, to the mission tomorrow is a sign that they agree with her assessment of the enemy.   
  
Being classified as the 'lowest-ranked pilot' doesn't irritate her—in fact, she's grateful for it. All pilots receive similar government-support packages, but she gets to avoid being assigned to the more dangerous missions. Well, the higher-ranked pilots probably get fancier rooms and larger salaries, but it's not like Iris doesn't understand what it means to be contented. There are only so many things one can buy without getting bored, after all.  
  
Iris sighs and gives up trying to ignore the mission specs. She carefully avoids reading the parts describing Grand Romania's principles and Central's so-called justified reasoning for annihilating every Grand Romania robot that approaches the peripheral territories. She's only seventeen, but she knows how to read between the lines, knows how differentiate self-serving bullshit from facts. Central wants to conquer Grand Romania: that's all there is to it.  
  
Tomorrow, Iris will fight using the newly-repaired ANGEL and will bring Central one step closer to their goal of conquering the enemy lands.  
  
Iris hates this world.  
  
•  
  
Somehow, in-between the time of her falling asleep while surrounded by her mission specs and now, Iris finds herself losing control of the situation.  
  
Iris is already pushing the button on the top corner of the control panel insistently, but ANGEL is still caught within the grips of the enemy's many hands. Iris can't even remember how many arms she managed to sever from Grand Romania's creepy-looking new unit. The digital voice informs her that the temperature of ANGEL's outer armor has already reached 3200°C, but the enemy hands wrapped around ANGEL remain intact and show no signs of yielding.  
  
The communication line between her and Central Tower remains open, but she nevertheless understands virtually nothing from their frantic instructions. Part of the difficulty can be blamed on the fact that the super-high temperatures outside seem to be damaging her own unit more than the enemy. But for the most part, Iris blames the Central Tower for not having any solution to her dilemma. The Zwei Cannon is broken into unusable pieces a few meters away and Iris has already exhausted every possible attack method.  
  
Iris tries to break free anyway, ignoring the exploding pain on her knees as she pressures her SPHERE to move according to her own movements. Thick linking cables gnash against her skin, but she doesn't care. She can heal, she can spend months without any visitors, she can recover.   
  
She's only seventeen, but she knows how to read intent—there's no doubt about it, the enemy robot is intent on killing her.  
  
Iris doesn't understand how can Grand Romania use a SPHERE that is completely different from the one they used less than six months before. Does technology really advance that quickly?   
  
She hastily raises her left arm to block an incoming blow clearly meant to decapitate ANGEL. Iris nearly screams from the immense pressure against her arm and she can't hear anything aside from the distant computerized voice telling her how her fuel is running out and how 70% of her SPHERE is in double-critical condition.   
  
The communication line between her and her country's headquarters remains open, and that's why she can hear the resignation in their unintelligible noises, that's why she can see the defeat in their eyes. They know that she can't win and they're not doing anything to save her. Iris dimly hears the emergency message from Pilot 03—he has just finished his mission from the nearby country, so he will quickly make his way to back her up, just ten more minutes—but then her hearing gets worse because the enemy knocks ANGEL down to the ground and her head gets shoved unceremoniously forward against the control panel.  
  
Iris tries to move ANGEL's legs but there's zero resistance coming from the cables connected to her own leg. Iris wonders if it's either because the linking cables have all been cut, or it's because ANGEL's legs have been separated from the main body, or it's because her own legs have been destroyed. A cursory glance at the status display monitor tells her that ANGEL's right leg is crushed while the left leg is completely stripped of its protective armor, leaving only a skeleton-like frame surrounded by cables. The fact that her own legs are safe is only a small blessing considering the shit she's in now.  
  
Iris attempts to roll away, maybe buy some more time before 03 arrives.  
  
Her attempt is supremely unsuccessful and only manages to get ANGEL to an unprecedented damage level of 95%. Iris wants to close her eyes, but she doesn't. She's only seventeen, but she knows that being a pilot is just no good, deadly even. She knows that there are risks, but it's only right now, right now when the government that has promised her a remarkable life of fame and wealth is more busy blatantly gathering data about the enemy's movements for next time rather than spending extra resources to try and extract their pilot from death—it's only right now that she truly understands.  
  
She is going to die.  
  
Only seconds after her realization, ANGEL's screens go completely black.  
  
100% double-critical level, huh?  
  
Black screens then explode into numerous crystal fragments, as one of the enemy's hands entertains the idea of completely destroying ANGEL's cockpit.  
  
Iris doesn't know whether to consider it a blessing that she manages to survive that attack. Her chest feels tight and she's starting to have trouble breathing. She regrets not requesting for a larger uniform to be tailored for today. It's getting harder and harder to breathe, though that's probably because she finally knows how the outside air really feels against one's skin. There's a scorching sensation on her cheeks, on her nose, on her forehead.  
  
"Haa, haa, hahaha," her laughter is broken as her throat burns raw, "I should... tell them. The outside air... is really... bad."  
  
From her underground home, everybody longs for a time when they can finally live above-ground like their predecessors did. Iris doesn't understand what is so special about a mostly-barren earth, chemical-infested air and cloud-covered skies.   
  
Her eyeglasses are still intact; that's why she manages to notice that the enemy's cockpit is cracked. Iris smiles—or at least, tries to; it's hard to tell since numbness is quickly taking over her entire body—at the fact that she managed to injure the opponent, at the fact that she wasn't a complete failure. Her vision starts to blur, but she thinks she can see the pilot's face. Or maybe she's just hallucinating, since she thinks she can see unruly silver hair. An unusual hair color and Iris remembers the anime that her friends watch. She thinks she can see owl-like eyes, but then again, she's already...  
  
She thinks she can hear the sound of 03's OPHAN landing maybe a few kilometers behind her. She thinks she can hear the sound of headquarters issuing commands for 03 to standby until 04 and 06 arrive. She thinks she can hear the sound of her own sobs as she continues to remain broken along with her SPHERE.  
  
She thinks she can hear the sounds, but that can't be true because her ears are already cut off.  
  
Iris is seventeen, just four months away from freedom.  
  
"Haa—I... I... really hate—"  
  
•  
  
 **END of first rotation** ;  
 _the beginning of the end of the middle._


	2. turn 02: second slayer

  
•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 02: second slayer_  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot._ Crew Charroue   
_sphere._ OPHAN  
 _rank._ Central Tower - 03  
  
•  
  
"Crew, you still here?"  
  
"Yeah, come in!" Crew Charroue calls out in a voice loud enough to cross the distance between him—currently holed up in front of the bathroom sink—and his visitor standing in front of his room's entrance. "Grab some extra towels too, will you?"  
  
It takes a couple more seconds before Crew's visitor blocks the doorway leading to the bathroom. "…I'm not gonna shower with you."  
  
"I'm not asking you to," Crew says with a small laugh and holds out his left hand. He pulls back his arm when the requested towel is deposited in his hold. Crew lets out a hiss when his right hand over-applies the hair dye and ends up putting some of the chemical on the tip of his ear. Crew frowns as he makes another mistake in the dye application. "Hey, help me out? This is kinda hard."  
  
"...you owe me dinner."  
  
Crew snorts and it's a mistake because he ends up adding some of the dye to the back of his neck. Granted, nobody will actually look at his nape, but there's still an uncomfortable knowledge that there's an unnatural black swipe on his pale skin. Not to mention that the dye he's using is particularly strong.  
  
"You owe me new gloves too," and Crew smiles gratefully even at those words, since gloved hands take the dye applicator from his grip and start applying the dye mechanically, without the mistakes that Crew is prone to make on a daily basis. Crew obediently remains still as the burning swipes continue on his scalp.  
  
It only takes an additional ten minutes before Crew is shirtless in front of his shower stall, his head bowed down as excess dye is washed out from his shoulder-length hair. It takes five more minutes before Crew steps out of his bathroom and gets a shirt thrown at his face.  
  
Crew briefly debates whether or not to just let his hair drip water all over the carpet, but having another towel thrown to his face seals his decision.  
  
"Thanks, Matt," Crew tells his visitor who is now raiding Crew's cabinet for spare gloves, "you're a lifesaver!"  
  
"Yeah." Matt Mutsuruku—known as 06 by most of the Central Tower inhabitants—rolls his eyes as he finally manages to find his trademark black gloves amidst the whirlwind chaos that is Crew's cabinet. "You didn't have to dye your hair, you know."  
  
"I didn't have to," Crew agrees with an amiable smile that is foreign to most of the Central Tower inhabitants who have seen him, "but I wanted to."  
  
"...is it getting worse?"  
  
Crew is about to chirp some perky nonsensical reply, but stops. Matt's serious expression deserves something more than flimsy lies. "...but, silver hair doesn't look good on me."  
  
"...are you going to start with colored contact lenses too?"  
  
Crew is somehow thankful that the Central Tower hasn't learned to bug the rooms of its SPHERE pilots. After all, there's supposedly no way lower-ranked pilots like Matt should know about the silver hair and the blood-red dilated eyes the higher-ranked pilots start to develop after prolonged use of SPHERES. But to answer Matt's concern-laden question (even though Matt would probably never admit it out loud)... "No, my eyes are still fine."  
  
Matt doesn't look convinced: there's that tell-tale furrow of eyebrows, the slight twitch of the upper-lip's left corner, the controlled trembling of the right fist slightly hidden from view. Matt doesn't say anything, but Crew doesn't need him to. And while it isn't in Crew's repertoire, he wants to alleviate that concern (that is starting to turn into frustration).  
  
"...tell you what, I'll make sure to invite you when I go shopping for colored lenses."  
  
—'when', not 'if'.  
  
"Let's go grab dinner," Matt tells him, offering him an escape route plainly, but Crew knows that the subject isn't over yet. It's inevitable, like the way the taboo side-effects start manifesting on pilots who have been working with SPHERES longer, like the way the Crew will become a liability to the Central Tower after all of the side-effects take root, like the way the world continues to die no matter what its inhabitants do.  
  
"Yes, yes."  
  
Even though he is ranked 03, Crew is more than willing to remain irresponsible and act ignorant of all the inevitable things.  
  
...even for just a little while longer.  
  
•  
  
"—Grand Romania isn't a threat, but we should constantly monitor their technological expansion. They are sitting on a mountain of important resources and if they start getting wiser about how to use them..."  
  
"The new 09 pilot has been chosen, but she needs to attend preparatory classes first. Iris Malach's particulars are entered to the database—"  
  
"Pilots 07 and 08 have returned from their reconnaissance mission. RULER and ARCH have finished the docking phases and are now undergoing maintenance at Port 04—"  
  
Crew doesn't really like seeing the control bridge and hearing the hundreds of voices—both human and digital—reporting about a million other things. Unfortunately, Central Tower's layout forces Crew to pass by the control bridge though, on his way to the special-clearance meeting rooms. He catches little bits of information here and there—like a new recruit joining the pilots (hopefully she lasts longer than her previous counterpart...) and 07 being back in the headquarters (hopefully they don't run into each other...).  
  
All of the sound—constant whirr of machines, rapid click of keyboards, firm boom of instructions—that fill the heart of Central Tower's headquarters disappear as soon as Crew reaches his destination, leaving an oppressive silence instead. Crew dislikes the control bridge's noise, but he isn't particularly pleased with the void-like environment he's in either.  
  
[Take a seat, 03] flashes as black text against the blue background of the floor-to-ceiling communication screen. Crew slowly sinks to the lone seat in the room; his hands don't waste a moment in retrieving the thick file laid atop the long table in front of his seat.   
  
[Briefing for Mission VEGA, START] replaces the previous display, before the wall-to-wall screens start filling up with tables and graphs that are undoubtedly replicated in the file in Crew's hands.   
  
There's the usual stuff about Central Tower's vision of the future and its wish for its inhabitants; Crew's been at the headquarters for practically the entirety of his life, so he has already memorized all those passages about how Central Tower aims to bring peace and brilliance to its' inhabitants' lives.  
  
Crew flips through his mission specifics, though his eyes dart all over the briefing room reserved for the higher-ranked pilots. He supposes it has something to do with upholding a certain image of nobility, but he doesn't really understand the appeal of having an absurdly spacious briefing room when there's only one person allowed inside at any given time.   
  
…Not that Central Tower, the sole organization that exists in the world's largest continent, has any concerns regarding space-conservation or overpopulation above-ground. Of course, it's an entirely different matter for the citizens dwelling underground, but Crew can't really sympathize with their plight. After all, the complex layers and living conditions of the underground cities are something that Crew has never witnessed with his own eyes.  
  
Mission VEGA is a targeted attack on ARCHADIA's third-ranked pilot, even though the mission briefing is quite clear about the reasons behind the attack. Something about guarding the resources that lie beyond Central Tower's perimeter—it's a flimsy excuse and Crew doesn't understand why the higher-ups even bother. It's not like the world is unaware of the fact that Central Tower is at war with ARCHADIA. Crew infers that it's because Central Tower is careful about declaring war on ARCHADIA's major ally. Crew rolls his eyes and is thankful that his vision remains clear even after that.  
  
Crew pays more attention to the display when it reaches the part about the enemy machine's specs and battle records. The amount of data available to him is astounding; not for the first time, Crew feels a spark of admiration (and something else entirely) for the Research Department's hard (cunning) work. Information—whether they are useful or not—are in front of him, everything there is to know about VEGA and its pilot.  
  
In a way, Crew finds it almost unfair. VEGA's pilot's future has been decided on a room thousands of kilometers away from her, and there's nothing she can do to stop her impending death. It's almost unfair, but Crew doesn't feel anything beyond that. He's been inside Central Tower's walls for his entire life and the only way of living he knows is through following orders and disposing of the enemies. Crew supposes that his life is also almost unfair.  
  
But he doesn't really mind.  
  
•  
  
"You're here," Matt's voice greets him as soon as he steps inside the room. Crew smiles—a thin curve of his lips—at the nearly imperceptible note of surprise present in Matt's tone.  
  
"You invited me," Crew points out as he makes himself comfortable, taking the empty seat beside his friend's. The Observation Room's capacity is up to a thousand people, but it already feels stuffy with the eight pilots inside. It's a rare occurrence for all of Central Tower's pilots to be present in one location—well, all but one. But the one not inside Asia's main tower is the reason why the pilots are gathered inside the Observation Room.  
  
"I did." Matt leans back against his chair, shoulders brushing against Crew's. "I didn't think you'd be interested."  
  
Interest has nothing to do with it, Crew wants to say, but doesn't. Unlike their own government-issued quarters, the Observation Room is bugged and any misgivings Crew might blurt out well definitely make its way to the higher-ups. Crew isn't exactly afraid of them, but he's also not exactly keen on being on the receiving end of their reprimands.  
  
"…It's the newbie's first battle." Crew leans back against his chair as well, letting their shoulders bump once more. Matt doesn't comment on his uncharacteristic closeness and Crew almost laughs at the displeased hiss he hears from fifty meters away. "It's a great chance to know what she's like."  
  
"You don't care what she's like," Matt points out, zero hostility in his voice. Matt is just stating a fact, a fact that Crew acknowledges with another one of his smiles. "You only want to see ANGEL's condition."  
  
"That's true." As the third-ranked pilot for Central Tower, Crew is expected to help out in the lower-ranked pilots' training and adjustment. It's not a pleasant job, primarily because all the lower-ranked pilots (except Matt) seem to think that they're much better than they really are. Matt is the only one that Crew is helping, but that's plenty enough for the higher-ups since the top two pilots don't even bother interacting with the others unless required.  
  
"Grand Romania is weak. Iris Malach will win this."  
  
Crew agrees, gaze tracing the joint structure of the enemy SPHERE, zeroing in on the bulky connectors that hinder the machine's movement. Grand Romania is small and has too few allies to account for its number of enemies. The only technology they have is the one they scavenged from the leftovers of the Herzog Kingdom's collapse and that's not enough if they want to compete with other countries that have stronger SPHERES.   
  
Iris Malach's inexperience is painfully obvious: there are uncertain pauses before and after each movement, there are amateurish misfires that do nothing but disturb the barren terrain, there are insecure fumbles as ANGEL goes through weapon after weapon. Crew doubts there are things he can learn from this live video feed—his level has long surpassed the beginner's.  
  
The sound of Zwei Cannon's blast masks the sound of the Observation Room's door opening then banging shut. Rei has probably reached his maximum level of boredom. Crew feels the room breathe a little easier now that pilot 01 has left.  
  
Matt turns to him, their faces close enough to warrant hushed whispers. "You want to leave."  
  
Crew shrugs. "I do."  
  
"Let's have lunch." Matt doesn't wait for his (affirmative) answer.  
  
Crew stands up as well and moves to follow his friend. He's tempted to smirk at the pilots watching them from the opposite end of the room, but he controls his childish urge. There's no point in provoking an irritable person. He exits the Observation Room without any troubles and thinks, offhand, that the new pilot probably won't last long.  
  
•  
  
"How are your preparations?"  
  
Crew almost trips on his feet at the sudden question. Nobody ever enters his assigned quarters (that happen to span an entire floor) aside from Matt; nobody else has been granted security clearance to enter 03's domain. The only other people who could override the security settings are the higher-ups, and the only higher-up who bothers to visit the pilots is…  
  
"All finished, thanks to your impeccable information," Crew manages to say after composing himself.  
  
Nise Hojo, Head of Research, laughs lightly, a sound that is deceptively smooth and harmless at the surface. With his plain black hair and plain white laboratory clothes, there's almost no difference between the so-called 'Doctor' and commonplace people.  Almost. The Doctor doesn't wear any insignia or crest or anything fancy that will distinguish him from his subordinates, but Crew knows better than to mistake 'Doctor' for an ordinary man.  
  
"Oh my, it's good that someone appreciates our department's work."  
  
Crew smiles tightly in response to the false humility. Yes, the information has been gathered by the entire Research Department, but it's a department that would have no useful output if not for Doctor's management. Even more than the top officer of Central Tower, it's Doctor that Crew is wary of the most.  
  
"…Well then, if you'd excuse me—" Crew takes a step closer to his doorway, eager to end this confrontation.   
  
Doctor bridges the distance between them with a long stride, uncommon crimson eyes twinkling with mirth. "If you do well on your mission, we'd probably consider promoting you to 02… again."  
  
Crew rarely is certain on how to answer Doctor's winding words and sly questions, but he is very sure of his answer to that last statement.  
  
"I will crush the opponent tomorrow," Crew doesn't think this confidence is undeserved, even if his opponent is ranked third in her country, just like him, "but I will reject your offer, once again."  
  
Crew is certain of his answer, even if Doctor's answering grin makes him want to doubt everything.  
  
•  
  
"…It's really here."  
  
The Pillar of Despair—a black tower that connects the barren earth to the brittle sky—looms overhead like a heaven-sent spear sent to break the earth into thousand pieces. Or maybe it's the other way around: maybe it's a spear that seeks to punish the heavens for hindering light from reaching earth. In any case, it remains a mystery, even after six hundred eighty-five years have passed since it first started to rise from the remnants of the Old Earth's Turkey.  
  
But Crew's mission isn't to investigate the Pillar that has claimed the lives of everyone who dared approach it. "This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission VEGA Checkpoint T-06. Commencing OPHAN transformation sequence to Stealth Chariot Mode in sixty seconds."  
  
His SPHERE hums with energy as it transforms from a humanoid form into its specialty Chariot Mode, wires twisting and curling in a manner all too familiar to Crew. The cables linked to his legs disconnect, freeing his limbs for a few seconds, before new cables attach themselves. The renewed connections bring fresh pain to his nerves, but Crew is already used to the unpleasant sensation of wires constricting his body. The screens change to the 360-degree view and Crew can see nothing but a vast, dark sky. Weather conditions throughout the globe are steadily spiraling out of control; Crew makes sure to recalculate and revise the settings for the stealth-cloak in order to account for the higher-than-average amounts of acid in the atmosphere.  
  
The communication line with the headquarters remains open (and has remained open for the past twenty-two hours) and Crew is somewhat glad that Matt is off to a training exercise with the Military Department. None of the higher-ups are supervising him and it's troubling, the amount of trust they have on him. Of course, there's no doubt that Doctor is watching this mission from his office deep inside Central Tower, but there's nobody in the control bridge who can directly interfere with his actions. It's troubling, the amount of leeway they are granting him. It's like an invitation, beckoning for him to disregard the usual rules and suggestions on how to go about attacking the enemy, challenging him to show how different 'rank 3' means in Central Tower, daring him to demonstrate just how fearsome he really is.   
  
[OPHAN – Stealth Chariot Mode COMPLETE]  
  
He is still an hour's worth of travel away from the final checkpoint, where he has an allotted time of six hours to finish transforming the area from a harmless desert to a hellish deathtrap. Any twinge of unfairness or pity he might have felt beforehand is completely gone now. Crew has no qualms with using his full artillery in order to show ARCHADIA just how weak their so-called noble and aristocratic kingdom is. But the mission calls for stealth and smoothness that can only be expected from a snake—Crew feels an inexplicable urge to bang his fists against the control panel and that just won't do. He wants to finish the mission as soon as possible. He wants to return to Central Tower as soon as possible.  
  
—he wants to see Matt as soon as possible.  
  
That thought is enough to snap him back into action. Crew reroutes the controls of the twin 'horses' in front of the chariot to his hands; with a sharp pull, Crew sets the chariot into motion.  
  
As he lessens the distance between him and the Pillar of Despair, Crew takes a moment to readjust the magnetic field settings and the stealth-cloak configuration. The people observing him from the control bridge remind him—in bland voices that are aware they're just repeating what Crew already knows—that the Pillar's unidentified field interferes with SPHERES' circuitry. He doesn't request for the Research Department's help in the circuit recalibration, and he remembers the Doctor's crimson eyes. Crew shakes his head briefly, disgusted at the memory. He supposes that it's an honor to pique Doctor's interest and to gain Doctor's praise, but Crew would rather hear Matt's deadpan comments about his unassisted calculations.  
  
—Matt will probably scold him and remind him that overconfidence can lead to errors, but at least he will be honest.  
  
Crew speeds up and doesn't stop accelerating until he finally reaches the last checkpoint. VEGA and its pilot are due to arrive for their perimeter check in eight hours. Everything is going along the mission's proposed timeline, just like always. "This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission VEGA Checkpoint T-07. Commencing landmine perimeter overlay in sixty seconds. Mission VEGA Operational Phase START."  
  
If he listens closely, he can hear the vibration of OPHAN's various parts as the chariot goes around the mission's designated area, dropping and burying landmines on its wake. Crew doesn't think that VEGA can withstand the explosion of one hundred landmines, but he decides to follow the mission recommendation of adding another layer of interference nets to enclose the area. Interference nets are only useful when only the enemy party is affected, but as expected of the Research Department, they managed to discover the specific wavelength that ARCHADIA SPHERES operate on. Knowledge of the specific wavelength ensures that Crew and OPHAN won't be crippled once the nets are activated.  
  
—Central Tower is really frightening. Crew thinks that it's a blessing that the normal citizens aren't aware of the specifics surrounding the SPHERES and what the government is doing to crush the others. Knowing the truth will only lead to chaos and worse, despair will seep through every corner of the world. It's bad enough that despair has already clouded the skies, poisoned the waters and claimed the earth. There's no point allowing it to pour into the complex network underneath.  
  
There's no point in prolonging this war.  
  
•  
  
"Are you begging for forgiveness?" Crew tilts his head in bemusement; the cables and headset connected to his neck and skull make sure that OPHAN outwardly displays the motion as well. "Or are you perhaps begging for your life?"  
  
There's a huge chance that his questions fall upon deaf ears—VEGA's cockpit is thoroughly crushed from underneath OPHAN's many energy wheels. Crew tries to scavenge the enemy pilot—Lyra, according to the data displayed on his left-hand screen—from the pathetic remains of her SPHERE. The communication line between him and the headquarters is quiet, but there's no doubt that they're going to report whatever he's doing to the higher-ups, to Doctor. There's no doubt that they're going to compile information from this mission, and use those data in order to analyze whatever they want to think about him and his performance.  
  
—Crew isn't worried about that, not really. Truthfully, there's no chance that he will be replaced from his rank, since the ones below him still can't catch up to his level. It's not overconfidence or any vulgar emotion like pride. It's the fact, backed by the mission statistics and the weekly pilot assessment. Crew isn't worried about getting bumped down in the rankings, but he is a little (just a little bit) concerned that the higher-ups will find any reason to reassign him to a new mission partner or to a new SPHERE. He doesn't mind working alone, but if he must work with another person, he'd rather that his partner is (Matt) someone he trusts. And OPHAN is the only SPHERE he has known ever since his birth—he even changed his name from the standard DX0015 to something based on OPHAN's majestic Chariot Mode—there's no way he'd be satisfied with any change.  
  
"P-P-P—" Crew leans in closer to hear the dying words of his opponent. This isn't the first time he's assigned to an assassination mission—he worked hard during Central Tower's expansion in the past couple of years, an expansion that is always preluded by deaths of the other countries' pilots—but this is probably the first time he's actually paying attention to what his opponent is mumbling during the final moments of her life. It's somewhat interesting. "P-P-Paul, I, I—"  
  
He almost laughs at the simplicity of it all. It figures that on her dying moment, an esteemed pilot like her only has her loved one's name on her lips. If all pilots are like her, then Crew will make sure not to bother listening next time.  
  
Crew is about to return her to her damaged cockpit and leave her out to die while breathing in the corrupted air, when she manages to gasp out another sentence.  
  
"P-P-Paul, you bastard, I'll, I'll kill you—"  
  
Crew feels a smile playing on his lips. He still leaves ARCHADIA's number 3 out in the desert—an effort by Central Tower to play this incident up as a gruesome 'natural death'—but he revises his opinion about his opponent.  
  
After all, to think of nothing but hatred on one's dying moments is very interesting.  
  
•  
  
"She was very interesting, Matt."  
  
Crew leans his back against his friend's, breathing in the smell of Matt's newly-bought soap, letting his body rest after the two-day mission. Their combined weight makes a small dent on Matt's bed. Crew's uniform is still a little wet with sweat and ozone-derivative disinfectant sprayed on pilots after each mission, but Matt doesn't make a comment about the bed getting dirty.  
  
"You should shower first," Matt tells him, putting force on his back to push Crew forward against the bed—the action only bumps their heads and shoulders more forcefully, "then we can grab dinner."  
  
"You just don't want me messing up your bed," Crew replies good-naturedly, willing his limbs to move without swaying. His vision feels a little blurred and he curses the long-distance trip for wearing him out so easily. He's only seventeen but he's apparently getting too old for his SPHERE. His eyes itch but he doesn't scratch them to relieve the feeling. He knows the cause of the itch, after all, and it has nothing to do with stray pollen or dust, and has everything to do with the side-effects catching up to him after eleven years of consecutively fighting inside OPHAN. And because he can't resist commenting about it: "…I see that you're not so enthusiastic to listen to my mission."  
  
Crew feels Matt move, hears the soft rustling of clothes against the sheets, and is only a little bit surprised to see Matt holding out a gloved hand to him. Crew sighs and thinks that there's really no point trying to hide it. He tries to stand up and fails spectacularly, falling into Matt's prepared arms.  
  
"You should have rested after your mission instead of coming here."  
  
"I am resting now." Crew doesn't bother pointing out that if he went straight back to his room, there's a huge probability that either Doctor is waiting there with his twinkling crimson eyes or 07 is there to annoy him.  
  
For a fleeting instant, a vaguely troubled expression crosses Matt's face. Crew opens his mouth to comment on it, maybe to offer some words of reassurance, but the expression disappears just as quickly as it appeared.  
  
"I'll listen to your story while you shower."  
  
"That's… very generous of you," Crew manages to say after he spends a few seconds blinking stupidly at his friend.  
  
Matt just smiles—a small, secretive smile—and for a moment, just a brief moment, Crew has a foreboding feeling that Matt isn't being generous at all.  
  
•  
  
"Haaaa, look who's here!"   
  
A familiar, but completely unwelcome, voice pierces through the silence of the nearly empty training room, prompting Crew to sit up from his sprawl on the floor. Sweat glues his hair to his nape and to his cheeks. It's a rather uncomfortable feeling, but it's hardly something worth getting bothered over. He convinces himself that the reason why he was sprawled on the floor isn't a cause for the sullen feeling boiling low in his gut.  
  
"Siobhan," Crew acknowledges 07 with a voice that he hopes is free of any curling disdain, along with a nod that he hopes is devoid of lingering fatigue.  
  
Siobhan clicks her high heels against the floor, places her hands on her hips, and dons on her signature sneer. "It's Miss Rex to you, 03."  
  
Crew doesn't really care for politics in Central Tower—it's already enough that he has a strange connection with Doctor and that he is partnered with Matt—but it's hard not to find Siobhan's arrogance to be funny. Siobhan is ranked 07, yes, but Crew doesn't ever want to think of the possibility that Siobhan isn't aware that she only got that position because her brother is the so-called 'Commander', the head of the Military Department. Nepotism at its finest form.  
  
…In any case, Crew would have been fine if Siobhan's snippiness is only due to some screwed-up rivalry and politics. But it isn't—Crew is all too aware of the real reason why Siobhan hates his guts. Or rather, every single person in this tower is privy to the reasoning behind Siobhan's hatred.  
  
"What brings Miss Rex to this training room for lowly commoners like me?" Crew drawls out sarcastically, adjusting the loosened sleeves of his training attire. "Perhaps you need a guide, seeing that you've never used this room?"  
  
Siobhan bristles at the insult, but she doesn't attempt to deny the fact that she has never used the training room ever since she stepped inside Central Tower. As though to compensate for her bruised ego, Siobhan's lips twist into something malevolent, disgust dripping on her words. "Che, at least I'm not the one who got my ass kicked by 01."  
  
Crew's fingers twitch at the reminder of his defeat at the hands of Rei, the highest-ranked pilot in Central Tower. Weekly assessments and mission statistics declare Crew to be the weaker one, but it doesn't dampen his desire to challenge Rei at every opportunity he can get. …Not that Crew has plenty of chances to have practice matches with the antisocial Rei. …Not that Crew is particularly competitive.  
  
"If I can defeat Rei in a fight, I'd have been 01 a long time ago."  
  
"Oh? Does this mean you're challenging the first throne?" Siobhan looks absolutely thrilled with the prospect of Crew getting involved in trouble.  
  
He is usually more patient than this, but apparently the loss to Rei isn't without consequences, so Crew springs to his feet, arms rising to a stance, lips parting to issue a scathing challenge to 07—  
  
"Crew, you're still here?"  
  
A very familiar, and much more welcome, voice breaks the tense atmosphere between Crew and Siobhan. The presence of another person prompts Crew to slowly let his arms sink to his sides.  
  
"It's… it's nice to see you here, Matt!" And just like that, the haughty sneers and fiery glares are swallowed back inside the layers of Siobhan's make-up. Siobhan's hands leave their place by her hips and are instead fidgeting with the frills of her customized pilot jacket, fingering the tips of her brown curls. Narrowed brown eyes widen to an almost innocent look. The snooty teenage brat disappears and is replaced by a soft-spoken princess wielding a gentle smile as her weapon.  
  
Matt steps inside the training room and makes a beeline for Crew, bypassing Siobhan quite obviously. It's admirable how Siobhan's self-control persists; even with Matt ignoring her blatantly, she doesn't resort into throwing a tantrum. Crew sighs and thinks that it would make for a more peaceful life if she is always this disciplined.  
  
"You're finished with your paperwork?" Crew doesn't pull away when Matt starts dragging him by the wrist without letting him finish his questions. "Let me guess, you're hungry already?"  
  
"I am," Matt admits with his usual stoic voice and his usual intense stare. Others would probably read something else from that—and as if to confirm his hypothesis, Crew hears Siobhan gasp in response to Matt's expression.  
  
"Let's go then," and when Matt doesn't release his wrist, the two of them leaving behind a dumbstruck Siobhan, Crew feels his heart skip two beats.  
  
•  
  
There is no sadness at all, and there isn't even a flare of self-preservation, when he sees Iris Malach's dead body being extracted from the wrecked remains of her ANGEL. The mechanics and engineers milling around the launch hangar are all muttering about how long it will take for a replacement ANGEL to be constructed, all mourning several all-nighters that will be spent building a fortified Zwei Cannon, all calculating how many hours will be spent tuning up and fixing the scratches on OPHAN.  
  
Crew isn't too certain on who would have won if he had continued exchanging blows with the new GRAND ROMANIA unit. The new unit is definitely top-class, but the pilot controlling the SPHERE did really well in coordinating his attacks. Crew understands that he is strong—he wouldn't be piloting for years if he isn't—but he also understands that the opponent is strong too.  
  
"It's a shame we didn't get him instead," Doctor murmurs from behind him and Crew doesn't quite manage to control his reflexive response to someone's breath tickling his ear. Crew's body is automatically whirling around, arms raised in a defensive stance, eyes dilating in order to assess the situation more efficiently. A flood of shame overtakes him when he realizes that Doctor is smirking at him in amusement, no doubt finding his reaction funny. "We got the other brother instead."  
  
…Huh?  
  
"The pilot of the GRAND ROMANIA unit," Doctor supplies helpfully, smirk widening at Crew's (uncharacteristic) dumbfounded expression, "is 04's younger brother."  
  
"Frederick Vlastvier has a brother?" Crew doesn't allow himself to be surprised, since it's not like he actually bothered to learn about the other pilots' personal information. Still, 04's disposition doesn't really seem like someone who has other siblings; he doesn't appear like someone who shares the spotlight with others.  
  
"Ash Vlastvier, 17 years old, currently GRAND ROMANIA's ace pilot," Doctor takes a step closer to him, tips of their shoes touching, knees knocking lightly together, leans in to whisper directly to his right ear, "…it's such a shame that we didn't get the more talented brother."  
  
There's no impulse or obligation to defend Frederick. Crew lets the malicious words slide as he hums thoughtfully in agreement. It is indeed a shame to be less one talented pilot. Doctor is part of Central Tower's top brass, after all. It's only natural for him to prioritize thinking about making Central Tower stronger.  
  
"Well then," Doctor takes two steps backwards to place a socially-acceptable distance between an older superior and a younger subordinate, "I'll see you around, Crew."  
  
A couple of engineers walk by the observation bridge they're currently at; said engineers all make deep bows to the Doctor, as a sign of terror or deference, Crew isn't sure. It's most probably out of respect and awe, since the Doctor isn't the type to make his fearsome qualities that obvious to everyone. And since it will look strange if he doesn't do anything, Crew bows his head courteously as well. Doctor then walks away with the engineers, energetically talking about the timeline for fixing OPHAN and the personnel involved in assembling materials for the new ANGEL, enthusiastically speaking as though there isn't a mangled corpse being transported just a few meters away from where he's standing.  
  
Crew doesn't know anything from 09's file—whether she had a family, a long-distance lover, dreams—and he doesn't feel guilt or responsibility either regarding her death. There's nothing much that he could have done to alter her fate. He was returning from a week-long diplomatic mission to their secret ally, ALLEMAGNE. He couldn't have arrived a day or an hour earlier to assist her on her mission. He couldn't have helped her as soon as he arrived in Central Tower because his fuel and artillery needed restocking. He couldn't have saved her. That's why he doesn't feel any guilt or sorrow when 09's corpse is transferred into a government-issued coffin right in front of his eyes.  
  
Some of the other pilots are present too: 04 is up there in the observation box, though it's obvious that he is more concerned about the news that his younger brother is now GRAND ROMANIA's ace; 01 and 02 watch the spectacle from their respective SPHERE's docking areas; others who aren't currently deployed on missions are discreetly observing their fellow pilot's final moments from their own spots.  
  
Crew idly wonders what was 09's final word—whether it reached someone, whether it moved someone's heart, whether it changed someone's viewpoint of her.  
  
There's no doubt that Doctor doesn't mind—no, maybe he even welcomes it—the fact that Iris Malach died in the hands of a refurnished enemy.   
  
Crew closes his eyes for a brief moment.  
  
He opens them almost instantly after, hands going inside his suit's pockets, back perfectly straight. He walks away from the launch hangar, fully intent on finishing the obligatory paperwork and mission report, before maybe dropping by Matt's room if he's already back from his own mission.  
  
Crew distantly wonders whether he'll also die this way—torn and broken, under the scrutiny of hundreds of apathetic eyes, without anyone important by his side.   
  
•  
  
Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours—the fact that Central Tower knows even the exact minute of his birth is somewhat both paranoia-inducing and amazing at once. Even though he's an abandoned orphan, the Research Department's technology is able to pinpoint his exact age by calculating backwards via his telomere length, muscle composition, bone rigidity and other biochemical factors.  
  
His records remain perfect until now, even after nearly twelve years of piloting OPHAN and undergoing nearly a hundred different missions.  
  
His scalp still stings a little from the newly-applied hair dye. He focuses on drying each shoulder-length strand on the towel around his neck, marveling at the contrast of his artificially-black hair against the clean white of the towel. Without help from the hair dye, his hair would have been nearly as pale as the cloth. The use of contact lenses isn't warranted yet, but Crew is starting to dread the moment when he would open his eyes as wide as they could and he'd still see nothing but a black mass.  
  
The pilot agreement states that once a pilot is eighteen years old, an assessment will be done whether they can still pilot SPHERES. Current understanding of the SPHERE technology tells them that pilots can't synchronize with SPHERES once they exceed eighteen years of age, though there are apparently some unique cases where the upper limit is nineteen. In any case, once the pilot is deemed unable to continue providing their services to the country, they'll be sent back to their underground city residence, where they'll live a luxurious, government-subsidized life spent with their family.  
  
Crew isn't sure how much of that is applicable to him, seeing that he's an orphan and has nobody waiting for him underground.   
  
"You're sure you don't want to celebrate your birthday?"  
  
Intense eyes and deep voice, along with the left hand pushing him down the bed by his shoulder and the right hand inching closer to his shirt buttons—there's no way that Crew isn't reading the situation right.  
  
Contrary to the confidence that others claim to be oozing out from him with each step, Crew's face has a hesitant smile spread on it. His hands are mildly trembling, but they are holding Matt's hands in place. There's absolutely no way that he's misinterpreting Matt right now, just as there's absolutely no way that he doesn't trust Matt the most. But Crew still stops Matt from advancing on him.  
  
"You don't want to?"  
  
It's not because they haven't actually confessed any special feelings or anything. It's not because they haven't actually done so much as hug or hold hands. It's not because Crew doesn't think he likes Matt.  
  
It's because—  
  
"You're thirteen," Crew reminds Matt who is strangely (unfairly) taller and bulkier than him, reminds him because it's a fact that the entire Central Tower seems to constantly overlook or forget, "…I can't."  
  
"I'll be fourteen soon, though."  
  
"That's not the point," Crew interrupts wryly, letting go of Matt's hands. Instead, he uses those hands to push Matt lightly backwards, to bring more space between them.  
  
"Is it because of…" Matt gently tugs at the edges of Crew's wet hair, softly traces the bags under his slowly-turning-red-against-his-will eyes, "…this?"  
  
"Yes." Against his better judgment, he leans in against the touch. "I can't endanger you. If the side-effects can somehow be passed on, I can't—"  
  
"I understand," Matt tells him, voice muffled because he speaks those words while his lips are pressing partly against the towel and partly against Crew's neck.   
  
And because it's Matt who tells him that, Crew believes him.  
  
•  
  
"This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission PILLAR Checkpoint P-09. Commencing OPHAN reverse transformation sequence from Stealth Chariot Mode in sixty seconds. Deploying defensive shield markers fifty seconds after transformation cooldown."  
  
Crew is just a couple of kilometers away from the Pillar of Despair and the black tower appears even more formidable up-close. Something akin to storm clouds is brewing near the ground. Crew has to constantly monitor the atmospheric measurements tabulated on the right-hand screen, making subtle changes in his machine's shield settings and outer armor composition to match the constantly changing environmental conditions. Nobody who has ventured close to the Pillar ever returned—that's why Crew will not be foolish in this mission. He's being very careful with each step he and OPHAN take, because there's something for him to return to after this mission.  
  
This may be his final mission as a pilot, as 03—because even though the pilot assessments showed that he hasn't reached his limit yet when he turned eighteen last month, Central Tower refused to let him strain himself by working until his last possible moment. Crew is actually a little reluctant to leave his place as 03, but his meeting with Doctor, Commander and the rest of the top brass has assured him that since his circumstances are rather… special, he could opt to stay at Central Tower. Not as a pilot, but he was told that he's welcome to work as part of the Research Department. Doctor has whispered to him after the meeting is over that working in Central Tower after his retirement is a surefire way of making sure that he doesn't lose the connection between him and Matt. Crew isn't even surprised that Doctor is up-to-date with the latest gossip, even if it's a really trivial one. Whatever's between him and Matt doesn't affect or concern Central Tower's steady conquest of the rest of the world territories, but Doctor is really whimsical and inquisitive after all.  
  
This is his final mission. He just needs to get samples of the soil and air surrounding the Pillar. That's all he needs to do.   
  
That's all that's left for him to do.  
  
Approaching the ten-kilometer mark away from the Pillar brings OPHAN to its knees, with Crew hastily making drastic changes to his machine's configuration in order to keep up with the sudden heavy pressure and the static that the electromagnetic flares are causing. True to his duty, Crew makes sure that all the readings and proceedings are being recorded and transported via a live video feed and data transfer. The data link is uncorrupted, so it should suffice. The communication line between him and the headquarters is open but all he can hear is a cacophony of 'zzt-zzt-bzzt' and fragments of panicky words.   
  
Collecting soil samples is going to be a challenge if OPHAN isn't cooperating with the movement that Crew wants it to execute. For an instant, Crew gets the idea of venturing out of OPHAN and collecting the samples himself. It's suicidal to even think about it, since even the most advanced pilot suits can only withstand up to three minutes of exposure to the corrupted air.  
  
But he just needs the soil samples.  
  
That's all he needs to do.  
  
Protocol dictates that a pilot must remain inside his SPHERE for the entire duration of the mission. Crew feels his crazy idea gnaw at his insides, making his fingers tremble at the possibility of what might happen to him if he goes along with it. He thinks about opening a communication line between him and Matt, but it's yet another insane idea, seeing that Matt is on a combat mission at Grand Romania's borders. Pilot communication getting intercepted is part of their everyday life and Crew doesn't want to endanger his friend's mission, even if he sorely wants to talk to the other.  
  
This is his final mission.  
  
Crew takes a deep breath before opening the more advanced section of his control panel. He thinks he can hear the officers watching his mission from the control bridge give a collective gasp at his actions. The normal control panel is already complicated enough; the advanced panel is something that only 01 and the engineers touch. Crew never had a reason to use the advanced controls because his attacks are usually very straightforward, but this mission is different. He needs to alter his machine's circuitry and magnetic fields more drastically, at their base level, if he wants to be able to let OPHAN stand up and move according to his instructions.  
  
He reroutes the energy circuits, reassigning the priority levels of the machine's parts. He focuses much of the electrical cell energies to powering OPHAN's legs, while unlocking the limiter on the backup energy source. The mineral orb energy is usually reserved for emergency situations where the pilot and the SPHERE needs to flee immediately via a supersonic transfer, but Crew taps on that energy supply too, and links it to his outer shields. He detaches the energy wings and the rocket cannons attached to OPHAN's back in order to cut down on the weapons' energy demand and free more energy for movement and defense.  
  
Crew ignores the blinking alerts on the screen that continuously warn him that his offensive power is becoming too low. He is very aware that if some enemy robot were to attack him at this very moment, he will not be able to put up much resistance. He is very aware of the risks.  
  
But this is his final mission and he will see this through. Not because he wants to retire with a perfect mission record, but because he wants to finish this flawlessly so he can return to Central Tower without any shame or regrets.  
  
Crew enters the three-kilometer mark with much effort. His chest heaves painfully with each step, as the oxygen levels inside the cockpit is starting to dwindle. His legs ache with each inch forward, as the cables become rougher and thicker in order to force the machine onward. The barren land swallows every imprint OPHAN leaves behind, much like the ancient sand dunes that he has read about. His fingers feel sore from the constant typing and calculating. His neck feels stiff from keeping his head bowed down in order to minimize the air resistance as the winds from within the Pillar grow stronger. He is tired, more fatigued than he can remember.  
  
But this is his final mission.  
  
After this, he can return to Central Tower. He can work with Doctor as a researcher, to help the Research Department develop technologies that can help make life more bearable for Central Tower's citizens underground, to develop weapons that can make sure Central Tower's pilots are the best in the battlefield, to develop shields that can ensure that Matt doesn't even get a scratch while he's out fighting for Central Tower.  
  
This is his final mission, Doctor told him.  
  
And as Crew reaches down to take the final soil sample one kilometer away from the Pillar's base, OPHAN copies his movement and bends down as well, hands reaching out to grab a fistful of soil before placing it inside the containment cylinders provided by the Research Department. And as Crew starts to report that he has finished his final mission and is starting to transform his OPHAN to its Chariot Mode for faster travelling, Crew realizes with a slow, sinking dread that there's a reason why the Doctor told him it's his final mission.  
  
The Pillar of Despair's electromagnetic field sends out an unidentified flare that utterly destroys his communication devices. The line between him and the headquarters disappears with a screech. Crew clears his mind and detaches himself from his pilot's seat so he can reach out for the emergency transportation device. He doesn't quite manage to free himself completely from all the cables attached—some more securely and persistently to his skin underneath his pilot suit—but he still reaches out anyway, his fingers fumbling a bit as he opens another set of controls. It's the first time that his heart beats this furiously and he feels dizzy. He enters a couple of commands that brings the collected samples inside OPHAN, before transferring said samples inside the emergency transporter. It's also the first time that he's even considering to use the emergency transporter, but he supposes that there's always the first time for everything.  
  
—"I understand", Matt told him. He needs to return to Central Tower. He needs to tell Matt, with actual words instead of easily-misinterpreted actions, that he believes him, that he wants to stay in Central Tower so they can go to the underground cities together. He needs to tell Matt that he needs to be careful of getting tricked into Doctor's plans and experiments. He needs to return.  
  
The dark clouds from the Pillar seem to be descending, spreading, reaching out to grab OPHAN. Crew probably breaks a finger or two in his haste to input the necessary codes and calculations, but he doesn't feel the pain. Not even when the coarse earth gives way underneath and pulls harshly at OPHAN's legs, not even when the clouds flood his entire surroundings and his screen displays nothing but darkness, not even when the Pillar's much-stronger magnetic fields damages his unit's defenses, leaving only a humanoid machine with over fifty percent damage and the sound of dying screeches in Crew's ears.  
  
OPHAN is damaged so thoroughly, so quickly, that not even his machine has the time to tell him how much damage he got. Crew is still alive though, and he grabs the sword and the gun that he always brings along with him on his missions, stashed underneath his pilot's seat. His body is ravaged by pain all over, the cables biting and scraping against his skin without warning. It's the first time that he has ever been injured so completely, and now he can hear the sounds of the liquid fuel and the chemical buffer gurgling and squishing as OPHAN breaks down into pieces.  
  
He should have known—with all the years he spent working for Central Tower, he has never heard of a pilot actually managing to return to the underground cities to live out their life in luxury. Of course, the families left behind are always compensated anyway, so it's not like the monetary promise is a lie, but not one of the pilots who have retired managed to enjoy their retirement. He should have known, but that 'should haves' don't have a place in his mind now. The only thing left for him now is to finish his mission and make it back to Central Tower, never mind eyepatches, wounds, casts, scars, as long as he manages to return to Matt, alive.  
  
The Pillar of Despair seems to be actively dragging him and OPHAN into its dark abyss, and Crew remembers that ever since Mission VEGA, he's been intrigued by a person's final words.  
  
And as Crew starts to part his lips to gasp out a curse as OPHAN refuses to budge, as OPHAN's cracked screens manage to flash a 100% triple-critical warning as an incoming energy wave makes a beeline for OPHAN, Crew doesn't even get a few seconds to think, much less say, the words that can be considered his last.  
  
•  
  
 **END of second rotation;**  
 _the end brings the beginning._  
  
•••


	3. turn 03: third traitor

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 03: third traitor_  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot_. Matt Mutsuruku  
 _sphere_. POWER  
 _rank._ Central Tower - 06  
  
•  
  
Matt Mutsuruku doesn't quite understand the tear-filled eyes of the researchers, engineers, pilots who are there in the hangar with him as the sound system plays a solemn funeral song instead of the usual drones about the order of launching and docking.   
  
He even feels a little queasy when he spots Rei—ranked 01—with a face void of his usual teasing, carefree smirk. 02's eyes are closed behind his clear glasses, whole body trembling slightly, which frankly makes him look uncharacteristically weak. Dyna—ranked 05—is openly crying, her long hair doing nothing to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. Cecile—ranked 08—has her hands clasped out in front of her, as though in a frantic prayer.  
  
Siobhan, unexpectedly, takes part in the reserved, gloomy atmosphere, though that's only probably because she's standing next to her older brother, the Commander. Frederick looks like he isn't taking the news well either, but as usual with him, his reactions are always a little extreme. Frederick struggles against the men holding him back, all the while shouting that this is all a lie. Matt is surprised to see Frederick this displeased with the news. He guesses it's probably because Frederick has always deluded himself to be Crew's rival. Matt wonders if the responsibility of clearing up 04's gross misunderstanding is going to fall to him.  
  
Matt doesn't quite understand what is so special about this death. He wasn't present for Iris Malach's coffin-transfer, but he didn't think that event had much of an impact. There were other deaths before Iris', but the level of grief and disbelief doesn't quite reach this.  
  
People are also regarding him strangely, a weird mix of people silently inching close to him and looking at him as though he's going to break down spontaneously, and people granting him a too-wide space. Matt isn't quite sure why people are expecting him to act as though this death is important.  
  
Frederick has apparently calmed down enough to fool his retainers into letting him go. Frederick then stalks towards him in uneven steps, angry tears in his eyes. Matt tries to look around him for a reasonable authority figure, so he can ask whether it's fine if he strikes Frederick down if he starts a hostile action. But his superiors are all on the other side of the hangar, beside the Doctor and the Commander who are reciting some useless words about how they shouldn't lose hope, and about how Central Tower would make sure nobody will fall to the same trap again.  
  
"Why aren't you crying?! Even that bitch Siobhan is crying for her rival, even that asshole Kaoru is showing some goddamn sadness even though he fucking hates him, even the mechanics are gloomy for fuck's sake! Why aren't you crying?! Aren't you guys the Team Demon Slayer?! Aren't you—aren't you his—"  
  
Matt blinks at the outburst, taking a small step back because Frederick looks like he's ready to claw someone's eyes out. The researchers and engineers in the area all make an effort to restrain Frederick from throwing a punch towards Matt.  
  
Frederick sobers up a bit when the Doctor starts to make his way towards them. The sound of tears—some loud and pathetic, some restrained and pitiful, some silent and dignified—continue to fill the launch hangar area. The Doctor looks almost interchangeable with the other researchers he passed by, especially now that his crimson eyes are lacking their usual bright shine. Nevertheless, his presence is enough to command 04 to lose his rabid snarl and feral glare, and is enough to disperse the people distantly surrounding Matt.  
  
"Crew Charroue doesn't have any relatives," and here, the sound of the uncontrolled sobs intensify, nearly drowning the Doctor's words, "so I would like to transfer his possessions to you, Mr. Mutsuruku."  
  
Matt blinks again, this time in an effort to remember whether he had previous knowledge about Crew's lack of relatives. The Doctor looks like he's expecting an answer so Matt disregards his previous thought.  
  
"Will I get OPHAN too?" Matt asks, and doesn't quite understand why that obvious question is enough to warrant Frederick yelling more profanities at him—with a few harshly-spoken, unfamiliar words that probably came from the language back at the Herzog Kingdom—doesn't quite fathom why that simple question is enough to grab the unnecessary attention of everyone at the hangar. "It's his possession, after all."  
  
"Don't you feel sad?! Don't you care at all?!" Frederick shouts at him and Matt isn't so certain why Frederick deems this death important enough to flagrantly expose his ugly side in front of everyone. "Don't you care for him at all, you demon?!"  
  
Matt blinks, this time in incomprehension.   
  
"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?"  
  
And as though to horrify the Central Tower citizens in the vicinity, as though to rightfully claim the half of the name of his partnership team, Demon Slayer, Matt adds: "Isn't Crew Charroue dead anyway?"  
  
•  
•••  
  
Pillar of Despair  
turn 03: third traitor  
  
•••  
•  
  
Matt Mutsuruku is hardly the only one who has barely passed the ten-year mark amongst the prospective pilots gathered in the Main Underground Hall, but he is definitely the only one who comes from a well-respected family and is also the only one who doesn't look any bit near his age.   
  
Central Tower holds this mass-screening annually for all children born from its underground cities; each year, ten or so preteens are chosen from a thousand hopefuls. Despite the occupational hazard that goes hand-in-hand with piloting giant robots meant to destroy other equally-large robots, most families actually encourage their kids to do well in the selection process. Something about glory and pride in taking the much-coveted position of being a teenage pilot—something that Matt doesn't really understand. Matt thinks that 'glory and pride' are really just fancy (lies) words for 'wealth and more wealth'.   
  
Matt knows that he will pass the screening without a shred of difficulty. Hailing from a noble lineage that prides itself on their skills as martial artists during the Old Earth Era made sure that Matt is an unrivalled genius when it comes to power and fighting. He has already made a name for himself—Demon—during the preliminary selection for youngsters that have strong Sphere gene expression.   
  
And as a genius, a demon, or whatever people are calling him, Matt has no interest in hearing The Tower, the Head of Central Tower, tell the prospective pilots about Central Tower's goals and beliefs via a holographic transfer. It takes all his concentration not to yawn widely as The Tower drones on and on about things that don't matter to him at all. The singular vapid expression present on all the other examinees' faces is enough to tick him off. So, in order to avoid another unpleasant (reprimand) meeting with the soldiers guarding the hall's perimeter, Matt just does his best to keep his gaze forward and focused on nothing in particular.  
  
And it's on that moment that one of the doors by the west exit slides open soundlessly. It's on that moment that Matt Mutsuruku sees three faces that all aspiring pilots know. It's on that moment that Matt Mutsuruku is the first to witness the arrival of the three legends, because he isn't paying attention to the speech as thoroughly as the other loyal and earnest candidates.  
  
01—whose name Rei may or may not be a mere codename—comes in first, his trademark happy-go-lucky smile plastered on his face. It's an expression that has stayed with the pilot on all the pictures and videos that Matt has seen: whether 01 is giving a brief speech to Central Tower's major financial backers, whether 01 is simply walking along the VIP-only hallways on the upper floors of the Central Tower HQ, whether 01 is busy slaughtering the enemy units in front of him.   
  
02—who apparently prefers to be addressed by his real name, Mark Xing—is the next one to enter the hall. Mark is popular amongst the recruits for two very different reasons. The girls all express their admiration rather vocally—with high-pitched squeals and high-speed claps—admiration for Mark's looks and supposed charismatic personality. The boys express their admiration too, just in a quieter manner, admiration for Mark's skills both while inside his SPHERE and on hand-to-hand combat.  
  
03 follows after the two—  
  
—and then Matt just knows.  
  
It's a little weird, since this isn't the first time that Matt has seen 03's face. But no matter the reason, this moment, on this very moment, Matt sees Crew Charroue, with just a few meters separating them, and he just knows.  
  
Matt just knows that it's Crew who holds his destiny.  
  
—just knows that he would have to kill him to attain it.  
  
•  
  
Expectedly, Matt makes it to the final round of selection. The testing has been moved to the TOKYO upper plate, directly below Central Tower's second headquarters, the home to the Military Department. Passing the final selection means moving upwards and training in the Military Department, while failing in this final round means a second chance to join the workforce above-ground once they pass the tests administered for back-up pilots in the third (and final) headquarters located in NEO-BEIJING.  
  
Matt knows that he will become a pilot.  
  
"You don't look terribly strong," murmurs a voice from his upper left. Matt looks up from his brooding pose inside one of the many waiting rooms, glare already prepared for whoever wants to start trash-talking him. His loner personality is apparently a blinking neon sign inviting busybodies to, well, busy themselves with getting their asses kicked. It's definitely not his height or build that's attracting wannabe-bullies—his physique is meant for someone maybe two to three years older.  
  
The glare doesn't fade away even when he realizes who is the one bothering him.  
  
"Has the test started?"  
  
Because there's no reason for the astoundingly popular 03 to loiter around waiting halls for people who are not even pilots yet, other than if he's there to issue the final selection test.  
  
"No." Crew Charroue is an idol, an ideal, for possibly the entire underground population; said idol is speaking to him in words that are even and emotionless, speaking to him with such an impassive face that it's nearly impossible to tell that he's even breathing. "I'm here to tell you that you passed."  
  
"…So there's no 'final test'."  
  
"There is." Crew's legs are shorter than his, but Crew's pace is brisk enough for Matt to actually make an effort to keep up. "You passed under special qualifications."  
  
"I see." Matt knows that he will become a pilot, because he has complete confidence in his abilities, not because he has confidence that his name and family lineage are prestigious enough to bring him closer to piloting a SPHERE.  
  
Crew is watching him. Crew is walking slightly ahead of him, but Matt knows that Crew is watching him.  
  
"Pilot briefing will be at the TOKYO Headquarters, Floor 48. Tomorrow, you will go to the NEO-BEIJING Headquarters to get your medical clearance and some other things that Doctor needs you to do. After your medical exam, I will bring you to the CENTRAL Headquarters where you will receive further instructions. Understood?"  
  
Matt stops walking.  
  
Crew stops as well, but only after taking a few steps forward to widen the gap between them.  
  
"…What are the special qualifications, Mr. Charroue?"  
  
The shoulders in front of him—smaller than his—stiffen for a split-second. But it's only a split-second, and the man—not a mere teenager, not a preteen like him—who looks back at him is not just Crew or Crew Charroue or 03. It's the man who is so popular for reasons different from Mark Xing. It's the man who is so popular for being a hero. It's the man who is the ideal killing machine who annihilated battalions following the unrest after Herzog Kingdom's collapse.  
  
It's the Slayer.  
  
Crew then turns around completely to face him. The bright overhead lights and the distance separating them are enough to trick Matt's eyes into thinking that Crew's eyes are tinted scarlet.  
  
"You passed by recommendation." Crew's expression betrays nothing. There's no warmth whatsoever in the Slayer's face. Crew then turns around again, a smooth movement, before Crew starts walking again as though the conversation never happened.  
  
By recommendation.  
  
Crew's recommendation, that much is certain.  
  
Matt suppresses a chuckle at the thought that his destiny is certainly handing itself to his hands.  
  
•  
  
It's supposed to be only a congratulatory match, a friendly spar, a non-serious competition. It's supposed to ease Matt to the everyday training schedule that all pilots must undergo to keep their bodies in the best possible condition for piloting. It's supposed to be Mark Xing's final exercise before he returns underground to where his family is waiting for the return of their brave, heroic, famous son. It's supposed to be nothing but a simple one-on-one between two pilots who are from families that practice martial arts.  
  
It's not supposed to be life-threatening.  
  
Matt hastily taps-touches-traces the flat walls of the training room, the pads of his fingers trying to feel the fake wall where the emergency buttons are. The one-on-one match has long devolved into a one-sided beatdown, with Mark Xing abandoning all semblance of humanity, all the while attacking Matt with deadly intent powering each blow. Matt looks at the situation and decides that the person in front of him, panting heavily like a wild beast, isn't Mark Xing. Can't be Mark Xing.  
  
Mark has light brown hair, for starters, and the beast in front of him has silvery hair. The color change doesn't even involve a dye job and Matt tries to clear his thoughts so he can find the emergency buttons faster. He's still new to the CENTRAL Headquarters and he knows that the longer he remains locked inside the training room, the less his chances of survival becomes. He needs to get away from Mark Xing—the beast. He needs to get out and get some help, maybe an armful of tranquilizer darts and maybe some special restraints.   
  
Mark growls, an inhuman sound tearing from his throat until the growl turns into a bloodthirsty roar and Matt jumps away from the wall he's fondling with his hands, just seconds before Mark decides to attack that very same wall. The attack looks like a simple punch, but it can't have been anywhere near a normal simple punch, because Matt still remembers the briefing and the subtle boasts about how the entire headquarters are lined with special cement and metal alloys that will make sure not even a sledgehammer can scratch the walls. Matt still remembers how the training room's walls withstood an explosion during the demonstration. Matt still remembers, and he gapes in shock at the sight of the used-to-be-invincible wall cracking under Mark's punch.  
  
This isn't Mark Xing at all.  
  
This is just a monster.  
  
A monster with silver hair and blood-red eyes.  
  
A monster that is now realizing that its impressive punch damaged nothing but the wall.   
  
A monster that is now taking uneven steps towards him.  
  
It's only supposed to be the final match before Mark retires from his duties as the 02 pilot.  
  
It's not supposed to go horribly wrong.  
  
Matt wonders if this is his destiny—to go so far only to die as soon as he starts moving closer to his goal to become the best pilot.   
  
This is a training room near the top of the headquarters—top floors have very strict security clearance and there's absolutely no chance that someone is going to pass by and hear his screams. Matt is deeply regretting agreeing to spar with Mark on his floor, because this means that nobody below 02's clearance can go here and save him.   
  
Matt slumps against the locked door, sweat and goosebumps decorating his arms. His knees are trembling, threatening to give out from under him. The children who weren't chosen to become pilots call him 'the demon', but even that name cannot help him survive against a real demon.   
  
The monster grins at him, a bloodstained grin worthy of fear, as though understanding his thoughts. The monster reaches out towards him, fingers curled into something that resembles claws, and Matt can't think of anything but his failed destiny.  
  
—"Duck down," says destiny from the other side of the reinforced door.  
  
On any other circumstance, Matt would have outright ignored the authoritative voice meddling with his affairs. But in his situation—faced with an ally turned into a beast, with no escape in sight, cornered like a helpless, normal human being—Matt ducks according to the instruction, knees folding and hitting the ground. On any other circumstance, Matt would have fought against being in a submissive position. But in his situation—well, Matt is just relieved that he didn't defy the order to duck down.  
  
The reinforced door behind him is a structure that can supposedly withstand a missile barrage. The reinforced door behind him is then sliced neatly—pure steel whistles against the strengthened alloy and there is suddenly an escape route made available for him.   
  
The monster leaps away from the destroyed doorway and Matt wonders if someone more fearsome than a monster is behind him. Matt turns his neck to take a glimpse of his savior and simultaneously feels irritation, surprise, relief and anticipation. It's an odd mixture of emotions, but it's justified in Matt's mind, seeing that it's Crew Charroue who is holding a sword in his hand from the other side of the door.  
  
Matt starts to speak, a stream of words and explanations bubbling in his throat, but Crew kicks the remainder of the door open and enters the room that was impossible to escape from just two minutes ago. Crew then shrugs off his jacket—the 03 insignia on the chest pocket reminding Matt that Crew has no reason, no security clearance to be here—and drapes it around Matt's shoulders. Crew is shorter and slimmer than him, but Crew manages to look regal and intimidating despite their difference in size.   
  
"You can close your eyes," Crew says, his words having a tint of something that sounds like kindness, and Matt almost closes his eyes in response to the uncharacteristic non-emotionless voice. Almost. Just almost, because there's no way that Matt is going to close his eyes when Crew seems intent on fighting the beast.  
  
"Mark Xing," Crew's voice is back to its usual emotionless drone, his stance devoid of any hesitation, his sword drawn out and ready to attack, "…I guess this isn't really a 'Happy Birthday', is it?"  
  
The beast simply roars again, the veins in its throat bulging an unsightly purple. Mark's clothes have the number 02 emblazoned all over them, as though to make sure that nobody will ever forget that he's the second-ranked pilot. Crew is ranked third, while Matt doesn't even have an assigned number and SPHERE yet, seeing that he only joined last month. And 02 isn't even human now.  
  
"Don't worry," Crew tells him in what probably is the best soothing tone 03 can manage, as though sensing his apprehension, "I will get you out here soon."  
  
Matt doesn't have any intention of closing his eyes as Crew so kindly instructed him beforehand. But Matt does end up squeezing his eyes shut—as high-pressure blood geysers out from the spot where Crew swiftly severs the beast's left arm. Some of the blood sprays on his temples and his eyebrows, and Matt's knee-jerk response is to automatically close his eyes while both his hands scramble to wipe away the blood.  
  
And Matt regrets succumbing to his automated instinct, because the moment he reopens his eyes, Crew's sword is already lodged securely on the beast's heart, piercing the 02 insignia as though to render the difference in their rank useless. There is blood everywhere and the stench of the inhuman death is enough to clog his throat and nostrils. Matt doesn't faint or vomit, but he doesn't attempt to stand up either. Strength doesn't come to his legs immediately and he doesn't really look forward to dragging his feet across a floor carpeted with sticky blood and some violently smashed tissue.  
  
"What happened to him?" Matt asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He must look pathetic then, covered in a jacket a size too small, clueless with what's going on.  
  
Before Crew can answer his question, a man appears by the destroyed doorway—and it's not just any ordinary man. Matt drags his body upwards with sheer willpower, because there's no way he will allow himself to look like a damsel in distress in front of the Research Department's head.  
  
"Ah, so Crew made it on time, huh?" The Doctor looks like an ordinary person, with black hair that fits well with the majority of the population, with white clothes that is the standard uniform of the Central Tower employees. The Doctor's voice is a mixture of cheerfulness and expectation. The Doctor even smiles like a perfectly ordinary person and ordinary people don't belong in blood-splattered rooms.  
  
"I disposed of the target." Crew pulls out the sword from the gaping hole on the beast's chest.  
  
"I guess it isn't really much of a choice, then?"  
  
…Choice?  
  
Matt's confusion must have shown perfectly on his face, since The Doctor lets out a mirthful chuckle. Crew's face is carefully blank, but is also bowed down slightly, unnecessarily focused on the act of sheathing his sword.  
  
"Mark Xing was found to have been infected by a mutated virus," Crew recites the explanation rather monotonously, but he doesn't look too happy as he passes by The Doctor, "and there's only currently one developed antidote available. As the person dispatched for this mission, I simply made a decision that using the only antidote on someone with a full progression of the disease isn't the best course of action."  
  
The Doctor snickers at the long explanation, but doesn't comment further, and instead busies himself with giving orders via his phone for people to preserve the scene and to gather samples as soon as humanly possible.  
  
"You chose to save me." Matt blinks, realization dawning on him. "You wanted to save me."  
  
Crew tosses a sealed syringe towards Matt's direction. Matt catches the antidote deftly, aware that The Doctor is watching their interaction closely. Crew doesn't look back to make sure that Matt managed to catch the syringe, doesn't look back to make sure that Matt actually uses the syringe to give himself a shot to avoid ending up like Mark.  
  
"…Yes." Crew doesn't retrieve his 03 jacket either. Crew hesitates slightly as he steps outside the blood-drenched training room. The hesitation disappears just as quickly as it appeared. "I just wanted to save you."  
  
There's that feeling again, that burning, all-consuming feeling.  
  
Matt forces his facial muscles to relax, to stay still, to not make any deranged grins.  
  
…It seems that it's really Crew who holds his destiny.  
  
•  
  
Starting today, Matt Mutsuruku is officially a pilot for Central Tower. At the age of 10, he is already ranked 06 and is already in possession of the POWER SPHERE.  
  
With Mark Xing's 'retirement' from his 02 position, the current pilots were reshuffled, reassessed and promoted accordingly. Frankly, Matt feels a tad disappointed that he only managed to place sixth in the rankings, but he figures that his age and inexperience are the contributing factors to his rank. Matt conveniently ignores the fact that Crew was only six when he participated in his legendary string of Herzog Kingdom missions.  
  
…Crew.  
  
Judging from the whispered gossips that seep through the miniscule spaces between walls, the 02 spot was offered to Crew. And judging from the fact that it's Kaoru—previously 04—who is bowing down respectfully towards the top brass, it seems that Crew rejected the offer. Matt doesn't really understand the logic behind that rejection. If Matt didn't see the efficient and emotionless way that Crew regarded Mark and his corpse, Matt would have explained the rejection as something due to Crew's guilt. But Matt did witness the way Crew didn't seem the slightest bit affected by the kill.  
  
Matt doesn't really understand the way Crew thinks.  
  
Matt's gaze travels to Frederick Vlastvier, the previous pilot of POWER, now promoted to Kaoru's previous spot. The new 04 is glaring daggers at him; Matt wonders if it's because 04 is unhealthily attached to his SPHERE, or if it's for some other barbaric reason that he can't ever hope (or want) to fathom. Matt then decides that there's nothing to gain from trying to speculate on what the uncultured troublemaker is thinking, so he lets his gaze shift towards the door. He's eager to start the synchronization tests with POWER, because while he's definitely good with the hand-to-hand combat and the basics of fighting, he still has zero experience when it comes to piloting a SPHERE. He hopes to remedy that inexperience as soon as possible.  
  
Matt is the last one to leave the briefing room after receiving POWER's manual and the timetable for the tests and simulations. When he steps out of the briefing room, he stands very still, in an effort to not draw any attention to himself. Three pilots are assembled just a few meters away from the doorway—and Matt instinctively understands that there's trouble brewing between the three.  
  
Kaoru and Frederick are there, still with their respective SPHERE manuals and timetables in their arms. The two newly-promoted pilots are surrounding Crew—Crew who is wearing a 03 jacket that's different from the one still in Matt's laundry pile.   
  
Matt takes a few cautious steps closer to place himself just within earshot. The three pilots seem too preoccupied in their glaring match to notice the eavesdropper.  
  
"—if you think I'm going to thank you for this—"  
  
"I have no need for your thanks, Kaoru," Crew deadpans, shifts his grip on the thick files on his hands.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Crew?" Frederick simply lets his papers drop before lunging at Crew. "You think it's cute, making useless Kaoru the 02?"  
  
Crew doesn't even blink when Frederick's hands clutch and crumple his jacket's collar.  
  
Kaoru adjusts his glasses with his free hand, venom dripping liberally from his words. "I'd watch your words if I were you, fourth-rank."  
  
"If you are finished, then can you please let me go?" Crew then forcefully snatches the hands away from his collar when Frederick doesn't let him go. "I am a busy person."  
  
"So the rumors are true?"  
  
"HA! The almighty Kaoru is a gossipmonger now?"  
  
Kaoru makes a show of pointedly ignoring Frederick, snobbishly turning his nose up at the Herzog Kingdom-refugee. "You've accomplish legendary feats and perfect mission records," Kaoru doesn't look too pleased with his indirect praise, "and now, you want a mission partner?"  
  
"Holy shit, is that for real?!" Frederick yells his words for everyone in the vicinity to hear. Thankfully, the hallways are rather empty. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"  
  
"I simply made a decision that my future missions will go smoother if I have a partner, as the top brass has been suggesting for quite some time." Crew doesn't roll his eyes at Frederick's flabbergasted expression or at Kaoru's displeased frown. "This is a decision based on facts and sound judgment."  
  
"You're in love with him." Kaoru's lips twist into something poisonous.  
  
Frederick is less displeased and more… noisy. "You're in love with a kid—!"  
  
"I'm not in love with anyone," Crew still doesn't roll his eyes and Matt has an inkling that Crew has long been aware that he's eavesdropping on their not-so-quiet conversation.  
  
"You reject the 02 position again, you rescue him from Mark Xing—what next, Crew?"  
  
Frederick immediately latches onto the least important part of Kaoru's statement, latches onto it with enough enthusiasm to erode anyone's sanity. "Rescue? Wait what rescue are you talking about, four-eyes? Crew rescued that kid? When?! Details, four-eyes, details!"  
  
Kaoru continues ignoring Frederick's outbursts.  
  
"I've wasted enough time," Crew doesn't answer any of their questions and instead starts walking away from the two. "…Congratulations on your promotions, Kaoru, Frederick. I'll see you around."  
  
Frederick howls at his departing back. "Damn it, you're really in love with that brat!"  
  
Matt remains in his position, back plastered against a wall. Crew passes by him without giving him a second glance. Matt thinks about the conversation and arrives at the same conclusion that Frederick (and Kaoru) does.  
  
"…he's in love with me."  
  
•  
  
Being mission partners means getting deployed to two-person missions together, means cooperating with each other in the battlefield, means spending more time together than with the other pilots. In light of his new realization, Matt doesn't think Crew's idea of 'mission partners' end at that.   
  
Matt has already long decided that he's going to be fine with seducing Crew, especially if it means getting inside details on the higher-tiered missions, if it means getting to enter places with much higher security clearances, if it means getting closer to the top. Matt has already long decided that he's going to use Crew. Matt has already long decided that he's going to be fine with it.  
  
But he isn't.  
  
That's why he prepares a dozen black gloves in front of his dresser. That's why he puts on at least three layers of clothes. That's why he stealthily places a switchblade inside his boots.  
  
He isn't fine with actually touching another person. He doesn't like Crew. There are so many things about the 03 pilot that he doesn't understand, and not understanding him makes it impossible for Matt to regard the other with anything other than cold indifference. But he needs to seduce Crew, because Crew is practically an idol underground, because Crew is apparently important enough to be kept as a Central Tower pilot despite rejecting various promotions regularly, because Crew is his destiny.   
  
Matt doesn't really remember what other precautions he took before knocking on Crew's door.  
  
The door swings open and Crew is there, wearing his 03 jacket still.  
  
Matt isn't ready for this—  
  
But Crew apparently isn't thinking of anything that Matt is dreading.  
  
"…how about we have dinner first before discussing the mission details?"  
  
Matt feels an urge to remove his gloves slowly, finger by finger, before using said gloves to hit Crew, before using said fingers to press against Crew's neck and threaten to cut circulation if Crew doesn't start sharing his innermost thoughts right now. Matt buries down the unexplainable urge, and instead cocks his head to the direction of the elevator.   
  
"…Yeah. Let's grab dinner first."  
  
•  
  
—Isn't he in love with me?  
  
Matt is there, seated securely inside POWER, the freshly-attached cables bringing pain all throughout his system. Matt is there, already awaiting launch orders, while his mission partner is still on the launch hangar. Matt is there, unable to move much as his body adjusts to the nerve connections and the oxygen levels inside the cockpit, while Crew is there on the hangar with The Doctor.  
  
—Isn't he in love with me?!  
  
Matt watches from inside POWER: the tips of their shoes touching, their faces a few centimeters apart, The Doctor's hands firmly on Crew's shoulders. Matt watches from his display screen: the way The Doctor takes another half-step forward so that even their knees would knock together, the way Crew doesn't turn his head to the side when even their noses bump, the way they don't end the very intimate contact that's not supposed to happen between a much-older superior and a younger subordinate. Matt watches from the zoomed-in close-up: The Doctor's lips brushing against Crew's left ear as he speaks long words that Matt can't even hope to decipher now, Crew's back arching forward as though to eliminate all space between them, their expressions relaxing as the two of them slowly separate from each other.  
  
—Isn't he in love with me?!!  
  
Matt feels his stomach boil with acid at the sight in front of him. His temples hurt and his throat itches and there are suddenly so many things that are wrong with his body all at once. Matt tries to take a deep breath to calm himself down, but it doesn't help. The constant beeping on his leftmost screen about his blood pressure and heartbeat breaching the acceptable values doesn't help either.  
  
Matt feels another urge: to remove the cables tying him down to his seat, to jump out from POWER's cockpit and into the launch hangar, to ask Crew point-blank if it's really true that he's in love with him. There's another, more powerful urge that washes over him: to ask instead about the relationship between Crew and The Doctor, because there's just no way that that's how Crew or The Doctor interacts with others. No, that relationship is definitely more special. And since Crew doesn't even attempt to remove Matt's gloves, Crew's relationship with The Doctor is probably more special than his relationship with Matt.  
  
With that thought, Matt then starts to think about wanting to demand that Crew should never speak to The Doctor ever again—a demand that's impossible to fulfill.  
  
It's strange, certainly strange.  
  
Matt seethes as he waits for Crew to finish the launching preparations.  
  
This is probably jealousy. Maybe he's dissatisfied that Crew didn't tell him of his relationship with one of the highest-ranked officials in the entire country. Maybe he's just cranky because Crew's rendezvous is making him wait before their mission officially starts. Maybe he's just annoyed that his realization about Crew being in love with him isn't so true after all.  
  
And that last thought is enough for Matt to justify the way he completely obliterates his enemy in their mission.  
  
Yeah, this is probably just annoyance.  
  
•  
  
"This is Matt Mutsuruku," Matt recites his name and identification number to the Mutsuruku Clan's server, and patiently waits for his call to connect to the main house. Matt taps his gloved fingers against the unfinished mission report on his tabletop, subtly checking the date on his phone. Just as scheduled, today is the designated day for the monthly phone conversation to his family. But the one-minute wait turns to five and suddenly Matt realizes that no matter how prestigious his family is, no matter how big their underground estate is, no matter how much his name is dropped at private gatherings, no matter what happens, Matt has ceased to be a part of his family the moment he began living above-ground.  
  
A computerized, recorded voice chirpily informs him that all the main house lines are busy at the moment, a cheerful apology about the absurd waiting time and an offer for him to leave a message for his parents who won't even bother to pick up the phone to wish him a happy birthday.  
  
…Not that Matt is someone who gives weight to sentimentality or useless anniversaries that do nothing but state the obvious.  
  
It's just that… he feels a little lightheaded, a little cheated even, that there are three gifts on his table beside his unfinished mission report, three gifts from three people who are not related to him by blood. There are three people who remembered his birthday and bothered to buy something for him, while his own family won't even pick up the phone.  
  
The newly-recruited 05's gift is practical: a box of soothing cream that's perfect for aching muscles. The new 07's… pile of gifts remain untouched; Matt is a little wary of getting close to the pile of clothes, toiletries and some other things he can't recognize. He understands that 07 is The Commander's younger sister and she has a lot of cash to splurge, but the amount of the gifts he received is nothing short of absurd.  
  
Crew's gift, on the other hand, is just a bunch of paper: free meal tickets that can probably last him for an entire year. He almost rolls his eyes at the gift, just as he almost rolled his eyes when Crew passed the gift to him two days in advance because Crew has a mission today.  
  
Matt tries calling the main house again, but after receiving the same dull rings and the same perky computerized voice, he puts down the phone and resigns himself to a day of brooding.  
  
But then his phone rings—  
  
—The "Hey, want to grab lunch together?" comes out a little choppy, with a bit of static as Crew apparently makes the call while OPHAN hasn't completed its docking procedure yet. Crew looks a little frazzled, sweat making his hair clump together, breaths coming out a tad erratic. To everyone else, Crew sounds as emotionless as ever, but Matt hears the hurried breathlessness that clings to each syllable that Crew says. To everyone else, Crew is still the perfect emotionless killing machine, but the Crew that Matt sees is a pilot who hastily finished his mission just so he can return to the headquarters as soon as possible.  
  
Matt lets his hand grasp the phone tenderly, lets his lips touch the receiver, lets his voice come out soft and gentle.  
  
"Yeah," Matt sighs into the phone and it doesn't even matter that Crew will be extra attentive to him later because of his uncharacteristic gentleness, "see you soon."  
  
•  
  
Matt leans against his bedroom door, knocks the back of his head lightly against the deceptively wood-like metal alloy, drums the pads of his fingers against the smooth carvings that will activate an auto-lock mechanism once traced properly. His stomach bubbles even though he just had dinner—and the thought of dinner reminds him of who he had dinner with, bringing another wave of nausea and dizziness.   
  
Just before Matt's thirteenth birthday, he discovers that his destiny is within reach. Of course, for quite some time, he already has plans on how to attain his next step—and the next, and the next—to his goal, but the realization still comes as something akin to a blow to his gut, coupled with an uppercut to his chin. Matt bangs his head against his door once again, grateful for the fact that he doesn't have any neighbors that can complain about any sort of noise.  
  
—Crew Charroue is weakening.  
  
Matt isn't sure how he maintained his face neutral and calm despite the hysteria hissing underneath, but he apparently managed somehow, because Crew didn't look at him oddly during their conversation and dinner.   
  
—Crew Charroue is weakening!  
  
With physical changes too similar to Mark Xing's beast transformation disease years ago, Matt is understandably anxious. He's still the youngest Central Tower pilot and he's still stuck at rank 06, but he has a plan to overtake Crew's 03 spot. He has a plan and that plan's timeline is shot with the knowledge that Crew is growing weak, every moment, every day. He was originally going to wait until Crew's retirement, and he was originally going to challenge Crew to a friendly match that will end with Matt showing all the spectators that he's much better than their revered 03. He was going to do a lot of things, but all his plans are back to nothing now that he knows that Crew is weak.  
  
He curses himself for not noticing earlier. He goes with Crew on team missions almost monthly, but he apparently isn't observant enough to catch the little details like Crew taking a few seconds longer to extract himself from OPHAN, like Crew walking a few paces slower than usual, like Crew failing to properly shoot his targets. Matt reassures himself that there's no way he missed details like those, not when his original plan required him to observe any and all of Crew's movements. Additional reassurance comes in the form of Crew's perfect-as-usual mission reports and superior assessment scores—Crew is as perfect as he always is, so there's no discrepancy for Matt to fail to notice.  
  
Nevertheless, perfect or not, Crew is weakening.  
  
Crew is starting to suffer from the side-effects of prolonged SPHERE use, something that will inevitably dawn on Matt too, once he takes over Crew's 03 spot and starts going for hundreds of missions instead of his current tens. Graying hair and reddening eyes are two of the major physical signs and Matt wonders if he will start to see Mark Xing's mangled corpse in Crew's place once the changes become more permanent.  
  
Matt feels a spark of annoyance when he recalls that Crew's knowledge about the prolonged SPHERE use all came from The Doctor, even if it's the natural order of things. The Head of Research is the one who should know about changes in the pilots' bodies, but it irks Matt somehow, to know that The Doctor most probably didn't share that important knowledge with anybody else, to know that Crew probably received that knowledge while pressed close against the pristine white laboratory coat.  
  
He lets his head bang against the door to dislodge his annoyance and irritation towards The Doctor. The Doctor doesn't matter, doesn't have a place, doesn't belong in his plan. His plan—that will have to change—only has room for him and Crew and nobody else.  
  
•  
  
Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours.  
  
The lights in Crew's room are dimmed. The stretch of the darkness outside seems to cross the boundary set by the reinforced glass windows, darkening the edges of the room further. The smell of shampoo and freshly-washed hair doesn't completely mask the pungent smell of black hair dye.  
  
Matt stands by the foot of Crew's very spacious bed, slowly removing his black gloves, finger by finger. Crew doesn't seem to be paying attention to him; Crew's eyes—it's still his eyes, because he's still not getting support from artificial contact lenses in order to see—are downcast, focused on the ends of his shoulder-length hair as he dries it against his towel.  
  
"You're sure you don't want to celebrate your birthday?" Matt starts crawling towards where Crew is. Matt deliberately lowers his voice, purposely lets his right hand drift to where Crew's shirt buttons are, intentionally pushes Crew down by his shoulder to demonstrate the strange difference in their builds. Matt steels himself and attempts to push Crew down to lie on his back, but Crew with his weak smile and weak hands are stopping him.  
  
Matt isn't oblivious to the gossip surrounding him and Crew. There's absolutely no truth in them—about them being soulmates, about them being lovers, about them being friends—but he just doesn't care enough to rebuke the gossipmongers. Matt isn't clueless about the special treatment courtesy of being Crew's partner. Matt isn't ignorant—that's why it comes as a mixture of shock and annoyance that Crew is stopping him from advancing even closer.  
  
—Isn't he in love with me?  
  
"You don't want to?"  
  
There's annoyance, because Matt is sure that The Doctor has invaded Crew's public space more persistently than this. There's irritation, because what if Crew somehow learns of his plan because of this failure? There's shock, because Matt knows that Crew is in love with him. There's no other explanation for Crew's wealth of smiles and touches towards him that just isn't being doled out to anybody else (…anybody else but The Doctor).   
  
There's no other—there shouldn't be any other—explanation aside from love.   
  
…Just as there's no other—there should definitely be no other—explanation for Matt's closeness with Crew aside from wanting to be the best.  
  
Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours and if Crew doesn't pass the assessment for prolonged piloting, then Crew will leave Central Tower and go underground to spend the rest of his days away, alone, away from him. Crew will leave Central Tower after enduring months of functioning with a less-than-perfect body, Crew will leave Matt without giving him a chance to prove that he's stronger, Crew will leave.  
  
"You're thirteen." Crew replies with a voice that sounds as though it's ripped out of his throat. Matt wants to roll his eyes, because there's no way he will forget his younger-than-everyone-else's age, a major source of his pride. "…I can't."  
  
Maybe during the Old Earth's era, relationships between two males or between young teenagers are frowned upon, but in this bleak world that is being swallowed from inside-out, people have more pressing concerns than to disapprove of others' activities. Matt doesn't understand how Crew can look intimidating and regal despite being smaller than him, despite being the one under his weight, despite being the one in love with someone who doesn't love him back.  
  
"I'll be fourteen soon, though." Matt states a fact. His birthday is roughly two months after Crew's. Two months is but a blink in the grand scheme of things. Matt doesn't understand the expression on Crew's face. Matt doesn't want to suspect that Crew is suspecting him. It is a possibility though—but who would warn Crew of his plans? Matt doesn't talk to anybody else.  
  
"That's not the point." Crew has surprisingly plenty of strength left, and Matt can't even attempt to reassert his dominance before Crew starts gently pushing him backwards.  
  
Matt frowns. He tugs the tips of freshly-dyed shoulder-length hair. He traces the faint lines underneath eyes that will soon morph to bloodthirsty spheres. Matt's frown deepens. "Is it because of this?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Matt is overwhelmed by the different emotions coursing throughout his body. There's relief that he didn't assume incorrectly—with the way Crew is leaning against his touch, Crew is definitely in love with him. There's incomprehension regarding Crew's thought-process, as usual. There's worry that there's something else about the side-effects that Crew isn't telling him, some new information that came directly from The Doctor's grabby hands and inappropriate smiles. There's confusion on what to do next, since he wants to go through with his plan, yet he also wants to make sure that Crew stays in Central Tower to witness his rise to the top. There's an unwelcome urge to try to ask Crew to stay in Central Tower.  
  
"I can't endanger you. If the side-effects can somehow be passed on, I can't—"  
  
Matt isn't listening.  
  
All Matt can think at the moment is how Crew's eighteenth birthday is going to come in a few hours. The number eighteen has never been so easy to hate. Eighteen isn't even a pretty number, but it's a number that will open and close different futures and possibilities and Matt doesn't like change unless it's change that will benefit him. Crew is still leaning against his touch, practically nuzzling his hand. And all Matt can think is how Crew probably knows everything there is to his plan and Crew is just waiting for him to drop his guard down—no.   
  
Crew loves him.  
  
"I understand," Matt's voice is muffled, and he is disoriented for a second, before he realizes that he's already burying his face against Crew's neck, against a damp towel, against black hair that isn't black really. "I understand."  
  
Crew loves him.  
  
Hands loosely settle around his back and Matt squeezes his eyes and makes a decision.  
  
•  
  
Matt finishes POWER's landing sequence without really paying attention to his surroundings. He finishes his mission on Grand Romania's borders, but it's certainly going to be a challenge to write a mission report, since he went through the motions while in a daze. But those things don't matter for now, because a more pressing matter is on his mind.  
  
Today is Crew's final mission.  
  
Matt is supposed to arrive three hours after Crew's predicted arrival—a detail that Matt arranged. Today is Crew's final mission and Matt isn't really sure if he should trust Crew's words. Of course, Crew didn't exactly give Matt any reason to doubt his words. But Matt thinks that his distrustful personality aside, Crew's words are too… devoted to be true. Matt isn't sure if he should rely on Crew's promise to wait for him. Matt still wants to be the best, to be better than Crew, to be good enough to be acknowledged—but lately, he's starting to think that maybe there's no need to target Crew especially.   
  
Rei isn't exactly high on his favorite people list and Kaoru isn't better than Crew despite being ranked 02. Matt is starting to think that maybe there's no harm in changing his goals a little. Matt is starting to forget the strange ache that accompanies each call that fails to connect to his underground estate. Matt is starting to understand Crew.  
  
Today is Crew's final mission and if Crew's there, waiting for him, as he lands, then. Then. Then Matt is going to tell him to give him more time, to give him a chance to learn what it means to actually be friends with someone, to give him an opportunity to observe Crew's actions for a reason other than sabotage. Matt is going to tell him about his earlier plans, about his previous goals, about his childish grudge and Crew is going to forgive him with that half-smile of his, because Crew loves him, even if he doesn't quite love Crew yet.  
  
Today is Crew's final mission.  
  
He scheduled his mission to finish later than Crew's so he can try that jumping-from-the-cockpit-to-another-person's-arms thing. It sounds interesting. He wants to try it immediately. He wants to talk to Crew about things, instead of failing to listen when he doesn't want to understand the other's words, wants to do a lot of things now that he sees things under a much better perspective.  
  
…And instead of Crew, it's The Doctor who is waiting for him at the hangar. And instead of a grand romantic gesture, it's cold indifference towards the authority figure. And instead of talks about future visits to the Mutsuruku Clan's estate, it's a somber one line.  
  
"Crew Charroue is dead."  
  
—and Matt Mutsuruku's destiny disappears, just like that.  
  
•  
  
"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?"  
  
The medicine settles uncomfortably on his stomach. There's a bitter taste on his lips, on his tongue, on his gums. He wants to throw up. He wants to scream until his voice box gives out. He wants to punch the steel floors until his knuckles become unusable. He wants to take POWER to the Pillar of Despair and see for himself if these clowns are really saying the truth. He wants to do a lot of things. But the medicine is already on his stomach, on his system, on his mind.  
  
And he ends up not doing, not feeling, not thinking anything at all.  
  
"Isn't Crew Charroue dead anyway?"  
  
And if Crew is dead, if 03 is dead, if OPHAN is dead—then for what purpose did he change?  
  
No, no matter.  
  
Matt then shakes his head, before the motion starts to make him dizzier and happier and it's not long until he's chuckling—laughing—guffawing. The person in front of him takes a cautious step back and there's the weight of hundreds of eyes on his back. Matt feels his stomach hurt from the laughter and he doesn't stop until his throat starts to feel funny and a metallic tang is starting to overwhelm his sense of taste.  
  
"I'll get the new OPHAN, right?" He gives The Doctor a friendly, bloodstained smile. He doesn't wait for The Doctor's reply before he addresses the person in front of him, the people watching him, the cameras recording him.  
  
"There's no reason to be sad!" There's no reason to feel anything, not when there's no purpose left in his life, not when he apparently wasted years trying to reach something that isn't there. But no matter. He is quite good at changing targets, changing goals, changing. "Crew Charroue isn't dead—no."  
  
He doesn't give the others a chance to sputter or to process that very special piece of news, because stupid people tend to interrupt and ruin things. The medicine continues to boil low in his gut. Everything makes perfect sense to his mind. If his destiny is dead, then he just has to revive that destiny, yes?  
  
The past doesn't matter—not one bit—not anymore.  
  
He smiles, a wide, pleasant, demonic smile.  
  
"After all, I am Crew Charroue."  
  
•  
  
 **END of third rotation;**  
 _the end to a beginning_.  
  
•••


	4. turn 04: fourth fallacy

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 04: fourth fallacy_  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot._ Cecile Tachter  
 _sphere_. ARCH  
 _rank._ Central Tower - 08  
  
•  
  
    "—my name is Cecile Tachter and this is my report—"  
  
•  
  
The End of the World: a worldwide catastrophe that culminates on a single day in December 2676 AD. Environmental changes brought upon by centuries of global warming, heavy erosion and deforestation, coupled with tectonic shifts, earthquakes and volcano eruptions—all serve the purpose of bringing the entire world to its end. Atmospheric collapse soon followed, along with the unpredictable weather patterns, and the human beings that populated earth all spiral down into panic. The economic unrest and mass hysteria bring about the downfall of countries and rise of new organizations.  
  
2677 AD marks the start of the Apocalyptic Calendar (AC), a change welcomed by a world that has no idea of what to do next. World leaders declare the events up until the End of the World to be part of Ancient History, to be conveniently called Old Earth. With new landmasses and new countries, the New Earth is a far cry from what once was the Old Earth. World leaders are all too eager to usher the start of the Apocalyptic Calendar, and the frightened citizens are all too happy to use the term 'Heavenly Era' for the earth that seems to have been forsaken by the heavens. But even with the optimistic naming scheme, the Heavenly Era continues to showcase a deteriorating earth. And as though mocking the hopes of humanity, the so-called Pillar of Despair rises from Turkey's eastern border, gathering black clouds around it and spreading terror amongst all who lay eyes upon it.  
  
ARCHADIA forms from the Mediterranean Sea. United Nations of NOBLE AFRICA unites the entire African continent. ALLEMAGNE starts a military-focused country from the remnants of South America. GRAND ROMANIA aims to bring about a new age of glory for Rome. FREEDOM UNION rises from the borders of Canada and USA. HERZOG Kingdom conquers the Middle East and West Russia. A little while later, CENTRAL TOWER forms from the newly-united landmasses of South East Asia. Kingdom of THRONES takes its seat on United Kingdom, the only remaining island country in the world.   
  
Under the Alliance of World Nations, these eight major countries swear to maintain world peace by maintaining neutrality towards all other countries.  
  
Of course, with much land unclaimed and much room for expansion remaining, along with the discovery of machines that draw the entire world's attention, awe and apprehension, the peace only lasts until AC 676 when the HERZOG Kingdom sees an untimely collapse.  
  
•  
•••  
  
Pillar of Despair  
turn 04: fourth fallacy  
  
•••  
•  
  
    "—I've come a long way from my birthplace—"  
  
•  
  
"From today onwards, you will go under the name 'Cecile Tachter'."  
  
Cecile salutes her commanding officer, and then respectfully bows her head as heavy files are deposited on her waiting hands. At that moment, Cecile Tachter ceases to be anyone else but Cecile Tachter, forgets all her old habits because she has no habits yet as she's just born today, remembers none of her previous acquaintances because Cecile Tachter hasn't existed yet yesterday, last week or last year. It's the most difficult part of their job, according to her seniors. Nobody wants, nobody can, forget everything before their life as a spy starts.   
  
Nobody, but Cecile Tachter is special.   
  
"The management has reviewed your qualifications and assessments." Cecile's heart doesn't beat faster in anticipation of the next words. She wills the organ not to. It's impossible, her seniors said. It's impossible to control one's body, to control everything. But Cecile is special. Her heartbeat still remains the same even as she hears her assignment. "We are assigning you to infiltrate Central Tower."  
  
The long-term mission timeline is already inside her files. She has two years to establish her presence in the underground cities. After that, she has to get through the recruitment tests. And then after that, she needs to be able to become a ranked pilot. Cecile knows she can do this. Central Tower is currently the number one world superpower, according to the intelligence reports. It's a mission that will end in her pointless, fruitless death if she isn't careful.  
  
But she won't fail.  
  
Cecile Tachter is special, after all.  
  
•  
  
    "—Herzog Kingdom's remnants are infiltrating countries as well—"  
  
•  
  
On February AC 681, two months after Cecile finishes installing the fourth layer of security system to her dilapidated door, she picks up chatter from the listening device she attached to the Tower Elevator. Frederick Vlastvier, a refugee from Herzog Kingdom, is apparently moving up the ranks and joining the ranked pilots as 06. Cecile duly makes note of that information, jots it down on her very inconspicuous laptop camouflaged as a yellowed paper scrap, encrypts the data thrice for the sake of her paranoia.  
  
Herzog Kingdom was the third strongest country before its collapse—a commendable feat for such a small country. Central Tower and Freedom UNION both have enormous underground spaces and huge land territories to support their expansion, making it easy for them to outrank the other countries. Herzog Kingdom, on the other hand, barely has enough underground space to build two or three cities underneath its plate. Its proximity to the Pillar of Despair also made things difficult for the small country, but Herzog Kingdom managed to remain strong—remain strong until its untimely and unexpected collapse.  
  
Cecile's organization has predicted that Herzog Kingdom's old projects—there are speculations about the fallen kingdom's underworld researches, wild gossip about human genetic testing and manipulation, bits and pieces of talks about inhumane tests—both successful experiments and discarded test subjects, are all making their way up the remaining countries. Whether they would do it for the sake of their loyalty to their country or for the sake of their loyalty to their own pride… Cecile and her organization aren't sure. But they are expecting them to stage a revolution, to upturn the other countries' standing and to show the other countries that Herzog Kingdom may have collapsed, but the Herzog citizens are not weaklings.  
  
Frederick Vlastvier's name sounds vaguely familiar. Cecile wonders if she's lucky enough to find the supposedly missing Herzog Kingdom prince just two months after she started infiltrating Central Tower. Aside from speculations on Herzog citizens' collective movement in the future, her organization is also interested in confirming the rumor that Herzog Kingdom's first prince has apparently escaped safely from the kingdom's metaphorical and physical collapse. Her organization isn't keen on paying respects to some lost royalty, but they are keen on possibly using the prince as a flag-bearer of their cause.  
  
Cecile and her information gathering are going to advance her organization's goals. For now, they are only compiling and trading information, but once the major players in the world's politics—both above and under-ground—are exposed, it will be easier for her organization to negotiate with them in order to bring about a world unity that is sorely needed in times like this.  
  
Cecile decides that she needs to collect more information about the Vlastvier boy before she reports her suspicions that he is the Herzog prince they're looking for. Cecile is confident that she is going to be the key player in her organizations' rise to the playing field.  
  
She is special, after all.  
  
•  
  
    "—plan to use the Bloody Beast disease in bioterrorism—"  
  
•  
  
The month is November, AC 682.  
  
Cecile Tachter is on her way back to her single-spacer apartment from the city's advanced training school when she hears the news. Her apartment is actually just a fifteen-minute trainride away from her training center, but the phrase 'on her way back home' includes the winding detours she takes regularly to shake off potential followers. Today's route is specially long, since she needs to stealthily sneak inside the Tower Elevator's premises so she can observe, maybe even attach a communication device if the situation is favorable, the arrival of Mark Xing to his refurnished underground residence.  
  
Instead of the popular idol though, the Tower Elevator is filled to the brim with officials wearing somber all-black attire. Cecile activates the data transfer of her listening device's records to her headset cleverly disguised as a gaudy earring. She goes through the different frequencies and listens to the recording patch that comes directly from the other end of the Tower Elevator, above-ground. Cecile's eyes fail to widen in disbelief as she listens to the snatches of conversation thousands of kilometers away.  
  
Mark Xing isn't coming back.  
  
Central Tower is disposing of his body. The tone of the elevator officials is filled with disbelief and anxiety, as though they're talking about something that can get them killed instantly. There's some whispered words that Cecile can't pick up clearly—though she definitely recognizes the words 'corpse', 'blood' and 'monster'. Cecile almost gasps out loud when she hears two sickening thuds—a sound so heavy and ominous that it can only belong to two bodies hitting the ground lifelessly. Cecile does gasp in surprise though, when the sound of the two elevator officials dying is followed by an earsplitting noise that can only be explained by her listening device getting discovered and crushed.  
  
The listening device is supposedly invisible to the naked eye; Cecile even had to employ some specialized nanomachines and artificial magnifiers in order to install the device correctly. It's either there's someone inside her organization's technology development team that compromised the specs of the listening device—or there's someone in Central Tower who can make her entire mission go down the drain effortlessly. The two possibilities are both too dangerous.  
  
Cecile hastily records her data and leaves the scene, intent on bringing the matter to her superiors' attention.  
  
•  
  
    "—Central Tower's pilot retirement program—"  
  
•  
  
Cecile continues chatting with one of the pilot hopefuls waiting for the results with her, in order to mask her sharp interest in the talks of the higher-ups from the other side of the door. There are too many suspicious things happening inside Central Tower—actually, the same can be said for all the world governments now, if the information from her fellow spies in the organization is true—and Cecile almost reports that she needs back-up, just in case she can't gather all the information her organization needs.  
  
After Mark Xing's demise—a fact that is covered up so thoroughly that nobody underground even suspects that Mark Xing is already long dead—the pilot rank reassignment shows a lot of fishy ongoings. The obvious choice to take over the 02 spot clearly belongs to Crew Charroue, another very popular pilot who is just one rank below Mark Xing. But the 02 doesn't go to Crew. Cecile suspects foul play; maybe Kaoru has connections to the top brass, that's why he managed to steal the 02 spot right in front of Crew's eyes. Frederick Vlastvier moves up the ranks again and Cecile urges her organization to finish compiling the Herzog Kingdom information pile she requested last year.  
  
Mutsuruku Clan's first heir also manages to get a numbered rank and there's no doubt that that's also as a result of family connections and financial backing. Central Tower is becoming too fraudulent, too focused on keeping up appearances, too complacent with currently being the number one country. Cecile allows herself to include her thoughts about the situation in her report. Just as agreed on her original timeline, she is going to be a pilot so she can observe Central Tower from inside its headquarters.   
  
Cecile thinks that the time to bring the corrupt Central Tower down is soon.  
  
•  
  
    "—recruitment based on connections and money, instead of getting those who can defend the country—"  
  
•  
  
Cecile is starting to regret letting Central Tower assess her abilities as 08. The actual rank doesn't bother Cecile—getting a too-high rank is bound to garner unwanted attention, which will restrict her actions unnecessarily. Cecile is displeased with getting assigned with 07—a partner assignment that goes hand-in-hand with her rank, she's been told.  
  
Truth be told, there's nothing wrong with Siobhan Rex. It's just that… Siobhan is weak. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that the only reason Siobhan managed to attain her 07 rank is because she's the younger sister of The Commander, who controls the Military Department. It's only because Siobhan shares her surname with one of the top five officials in the entire country. Siobhan is stronger than some of the other pilot hopefuls, true, but she isn't the strongest among the new recruits. Cecile is stronger than her and the only reason for the one-rank difference between them is because Cecile let that difference appear.  
  
Siobhan is an okay partner. Not particularly easy to get along with, but once Cecile learns of Siobhan's peculiarities and interests, she's a lot easier to handle. Just as Siobhan's weak piloting skills are obvious to everyone who has seen her battle, Siobhan's particular obsession is also well-known to everyone in the Central Tower HQ. Cecile almost pities Siobhan; being a Rex like The Commander isn't helping her out in her romantic pursuit of Matt. Cecile almost pities Siobhan for falling for someone who isn't awestruck by top social standing.  
  
"Are you getting along with Siobhan?" Dyna—ranked 05—asks her with a gentle smile, long legs taking shorter strides to match Cecile's pace.  
  
Cecile smiles back at her. Cecile has been friends with Dyna ever since their pilot recruitment, where both of them managed to clear all the tests and land positions as ranked pilots. Cecile and Dyna are both fourteen years-old, but there's something about Dyna that makes it feel like she's older, wiser, kinder. Cecile decides that Dyna is the perfect older sister.  
  
"She's too distracted by Matt," Cecile shares, smile twitching at the memory of Siobhan needing assistance in the previous mission just because Matt passed by in the background of her video feed of the control bridge, "but otherwise, we're doing fine."  
  
Dyna laughs. Cecile muses that even Dyna's laughter sounds refined and elegant. "Well, she is a lady in love."  
  
Cecile almost retorts that Siobhan is nowhere near ladylike, but she doesn't want to spoil the warm atmosphere. Dyna isn't the type who retorts to replies. Dyna is the type of person who can see the good sides to a person or to a situation, no matter how bleak things initially appear. Cecile faintly wonders if Dyna can find good things to say about her once she learns that she isn't really a Central Tower citizen, that she isn't really thinking of Central Tower's best interests at heart, that she isn't really Cecile Tachter.  
  
Cecile frowns at the thought.  
  
Dyna immediately notices the shift in the mood. Dyna peers at her, long black hair gleaming under the hallway's bright lights. Cecile bites her lip and manages to say something about having a lot on her mind lately. Cecile is thankful that Dyna noticed, that Dyna doesn't push her for an explanation for her sudden gloom.  
  
"I'll see you later," Cecile excuses herself, feeling a little guilty that she's hiding more and more things from her friend, "I need to be there for ARCH's performance review."  
  
Dyna doesn't comment on how pilots, especially the lower-ranked ones, aren't really required to attend their respective SPHERE's performance review. Dyna lets it go with another smile and waves at her simply.  
  
Cecile tries to keep an amiable expression on her face, even though all she wants to do is to tell Dyna everything. In the end, Cecile's self-control wins over instinct and Cecile makes her way towards the briefing rooms—Dyna's worried stare not leaving her back.  
  
•  
  
    "—superiors taking advantage of the pilots—"  
  
•  
  
Cecile tries to flatten herself as much as possible against the wall that's separating her from the… scene in the hallway. She is honestly more than just a little confused. Of course, her organization already informed her of Central Tower's depravity, but the scene in front of her is just too ridiculous.  
  
She tries to peek again—sneakily, stealthily, silently—just so she is sure that she isn't just imagining it.  
  
The second peek is more than enough to confirm that it's really the straight-laced Kaoru and The Doctor locked in a passionate kiss.   
  
Cecile is already aware of The Doctor being too flirtatious and touchy when it comes to Crew, but she disregarded that, because she's also aware that Crew and Matt are together. Cecile doesn't really have any opinion regarding those two's relationship—it's a bit difficult to imagine the Slayer being capable of genuine warmth, but from the few times that Cecile has stumbled upon them in their quiet conversations, even she can see that they're very comfortable with each other. It's Siobhan's loss, and Cecile can only hope that Siobhan can realize that futility of her own emotions soon.  
  
…In any case, aside from the sight just a few meters away from her hiding place, there's absolutely nothing that alerted Cecile of anything going on between Kaoru and their superior. Cecile has always pegged Kaoru as someone who is too… stuck-up and too serious to even acknowledge the possibility of forming an actual relationship with another human being. But then again, thanks to her organization's advanced information network, Cecile also knows that Kaoru has a very female fiancée. Cecile doesn't have anything to say about the differences between homosexual and heterosexual couples—maybe the ancient world and their ancient way of thinking and their ancient problems view things differently, but Cecile belongs to the Heavenly Era and such trivial matters have no place in their society. Cecile does have strong feelings against superiors taking advantage of their underlings; Cecile doesn't approve of people cheating on their fiancées, no matter how many thousands of kilometers may separate them.  
  
The Doctor is a very suspicious character though. Cecile frowns as she thinks about the notes she wrote down regarding The Doctor's activities. She resolves to devote a portion of her time to follow The Doctor more closely. She tries to justify her new resolve with thoughts about The Doctor's shady characteristics, but deep down, she knows that she just wants to make sure that The Doctor isn't completely manipulating the young, affection-starved teenagers around him.  
  
With that thought in mind, Cecile walks away from the scene, completely disregarding the duo still locked in a fervent embrace in the middle of the hallway—an action that is almost inviting the entire world to witness what's happening.  
  
•  
  
    "—sacrifice pilots in the war with Grand Romania's new prototypes—"  
  
•  
  
Cecile watches the extraction with hardened eyes, thankful that her ARCH's docking plate is located above the others. Her elevated position allows her to see nearly the entire launch hangar, shields her from the sound of dozens of mechanics and engineers cold-heartedly fussing about the repair schedules instead of properly mourning the dead. Her position also lets her catch The Doctor touching Crew, rather inappropriately in her opinion.   
  
Cecile didn't have much opportunity to talk to Iris Malach, despite spending a year living in close quarters, despite being pilots together for all those months. Cecile is very preoccupied with her duties to both Central Tower and to her organization; she is somewhat regretful that all the data she has on Iris are courtesy of her organization's information database. It's a solid reminder, Cecile supposes, that their job as pilots is extremely dangerous. Cecile's sense of danger is somewhat skewed, since living as a spy is already inherently dangerous on its own.  
  
Her organization mostly ignores Grand Romania—a small country without much technology to compete with others—but things change. Cecile's gaze is filled with bitterness, as she witnesses Iris Malach's body, limp and damaged, be transferred to her final resting place. A somber funeral song is playing all throughout the headquarters, but each one of Central Tower's employees are thinking of a million other things aside from the suffering they put Iris through.  
  
Cecile is painfully aware of the decision from the higher-ups. They sacrificed Iris Malach's life and her ANGEL in order to get a better glimpse at Grand Romania's new unit and its capabilities. Information gathering and data analysis were their top priority—Iris Malach's life meant nothing but an information source and a SPHERE that needs to be rebuilt.  
  
Iris Malach has family and friends left behind underground. There's no doubt that Central Tower will not disclose the entire mission report nor the real reason why Iris' body is mangled beyond repair, why Iris' coffin can't be opened again in fear of contamination. Cecile balls her fists, feeling distinctly angry at the way the world works. Central Tower is the number one country and they do whatever they please and they don't give much regard for human lives and Cecile just wants her job to be over so she can be free of this wretched place.  
  
This world is filled with injustice even though it's supposedly titled a Heavenly Era.  
  
Cecile vows to find out the reason behind Grand Romania's sudden technological advancement, to find the reason why Central Tower remains so strong when its values and its morality are all so frail. Her organization aims to bring Central Tower down and for possibly the first time ever, Cecile feels that she completely resonates with her organization's goals.  
  
•  
  
    "—suicide missions to the Pillar of Despair—"  
  
•  
  
September AC 686—merely two months after Iris Malach's death and burial—brings about another fresh grief to the entire Central Tower. The difference between the two deaths is astounding, though Cecile completely understands. Iris and Crew may be similar in regards to their preference for solitude, but Crew is Central Tower's most recent hero.  
  
Cecile is somehow loathe to use the term 'hero' to describe someone who is well-regarded by everyone because of his impeccable work in slaughtering other people. The Slayer is dead, his remains swallowed by the Pillar of Despair.  
  
Rei's cheerful smirk is absent from his face, an odd solemnity settling upon his features. As ranked 01, Rei doesn't really interact much with his fellow pilots, but there's definitely a connection between him and Crew—a connection forged by years of fighting together, strengthened by their bond of power. Kaoru is uncharacteristically trembling, nearly swaying on his feet. His glasses can't mask his squeezed eyes that are only barely successful in stopping a tear from escaping.  
  
Dyna looks devastated—she regards everyone highly and she's really nice, a quality that Cecile can't even hope to achieve. Cecile wants to brush away the black hair falling in front of Dyna's face, wants to rub the shivering back in a comforting gesture, wants to hug the person who feels like an older sister to her. Dyna doesn't really have a strong bond with Crew, but Dyna still feels immense sadness nevertheless. Siobhan manages to control her thoughts and impulses quite well; looking at her now, standing beside her older brother decked in full regalia, Cecile can see bits and pieces of family resemblance between the two.  
  
Cecile's hands are clasped together in front of her, in an effort to control herself. In her mind, there's no doubt that Crew's death is due to his suicide mission, a 'final mission' approved and solicited by The Doctor and the rest of Central Tower's top brass. She takes deep breaths to calm herself down; she is pissed, but she isn't going to singlehandedly destroy all her progress in infiltrating Central Tower just because of one tragedy.  
  
Frederick Vlastvier is more honest though, frustration clearly written on his snarling face and his trembling fists. Cecile's information on 04 is filled with notes on the other's hotheadedness and one-sided rivalry towards Crew. Despite the supposed hatred that Frederick feels towards the now-dead Crew, Frederick looks like he's devastated by the news as well. It's remarkable, how Crew can affect Central Tower so much despite being a mere pawn in the country's scheme.   
  
It is strange sort of charisma—a type of respect that a person's presence demands unconditionally. It's a dangerous sort of charisma—a type of influence that can affect the minds of unsuspecting people. For a moment, Cecile indulges herself with the thought that a dangerous element like Crew needed to be eliminated from the playing field as soon as possible. Cecile clasps her hands tighter, making her trembling hands paler from the cut-off circulation. It's a horrible thought, but Cecile is a spy first and foremost and she needs to prioritize her mission above all things.  
  
Frederick is causing a scene, which takes the attention away from the one that needs watching. Cecile observes Matt Mutsuruku from the corner of her eye, noting the lack of outward despair. Crew is the one infamous for his stoicism, but Matt is rather reserved too; it's just heartbreaking to witness Matt show his apathetic side now. Cecile's attention then shifts again to Frederick, who managed to fool the people restraining him into letting him go and stalk towards Matt.  
  
The higher-ups are taking turns in delivering speeches that comfort no one; Cecile instead fixes her gaze on the more interesting scenario of Frederick snarling at Matt.  
  
"Why aren't you crying?! Even that bitch Siobhan is crying for her rival, even that asshole Kaoru is showing some goddamn sadness even though he fucking hates him, even the mechanics are gloomy for fuck's sake! Why aren't you crying?! Aren't you guys the Team Demon Slayer?! Aren't you—aren't you his—"  
  
Cecile is a spy and she's just here to gather information from Central Tower—and even she is interested in knowing Matt's answer. In her mind, there's no doubt that Matt and Crew are—were a couple. At least, there hasn't been any shred of doubt, even if The Doctor flirts rather audaciously with Crew, even if both Matt and Crew appear incapable of anything resembling gentle affection—there hasn't been a shred of doubt, until now.   
  
Matt's face is eerily devoid of any emotion aside from blank boredom.  
  
Frederick looks quite ready to forcefully gouge Matt's eyes out from their sockets. Cecile almost reacts to the killing intent, an instilled, automatic response to a potentially life-threatening situation. Almost, but she manages to catch herself before she inevitably gives away her intensive training not meant for Central Tower teenagers. Cecile sighs in relief when she sees the surrounding researchers and engineers make an effort to restrain Frederick from doing anything that can land him in serious trouble.   
  
Her relief is short-lived though, as she notices The Doctor making his way from the other side of the launch hangar. Cecile tries her best to remove any disapproval in her expression; The Doctor is observant, despite appearances, and Cecile doesn't want to give The Doctor anything that can be used against her. Frederick ceases struggling once The Doctor enters his field of vision. Cecile is once again reminded of the dangerous type of charisma—a magnetism that tugs and yanks at a person's psyche, commanding absolute obedience and deference from everyone around him.   
  
Belatedly, Cecile realizes that tears are running down her cheeks. She supposes that it's because nearly the entire launch hangar is crying, that it's because it will look suspicious if she doesn't take part in showing her sorrow for the loss of a comrade. Her tears continue to fall when she hears The Doctor offer the orphan Crew's possessions to Matt. Crew is hardly the only orphan in Cecile's life, but the thought that Crew started piloting a SPHERE ever since his early youth instead of spending time with a family is just too upsetting.  
  
Matt's face is devoid of any sorrow as he coldly asks for OPHAN and a promotion to 03.  
  
"Don't you feel sad?! Don't you care at all?!" Frederick's hysterical shouts drown out the sound of collective sobbing. "Don't you care for him at all, you demon?!"  
  
"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?" Cecile is horrified to see nothing but bewilderment in Matt's face. The realization that Matt is completely serious, that a monster who doesn't understand the concept of humanity, is one of Central Tower's major pilots, is somewhat the most frightening thing Cecile has ever witnessed in her life.  "Isn't Crew Charroue dead anyway?"  
  
The chilling laughter that bubbles out of Matt's lips prompts Cecile to take an alarmed step backwards, hands flying to her pockets to retrieve a switchblade for defense. She curses herself after a moment, but she isn't too focused on the fact that she nearly attacked Matt in a knee-jerk response to danger. Matt's lips are becoming red from the blood trickling out of his mouth; Matt's laughter is starting to sound deranged and coarse.  
  
"There's no reason to be sad!" Matt suddenly declares, throwing his hands up in the air, whirling around as though in celebration, addressing the entire launch hangar and possibly the entire Central Tower with a bloodstained grin. "Crew Charroue isn't dead—no."  
  
Cecile's blood runs cold, as she grasps where Matt is going with his little declaration. At the same time, Cecile understands that she has no choice but to eliminate another dangerous element before he screws up her organization's foreseen scenarios. Cecile's insight is proven true when Matt continues on to say a few more words, a few more words that is the difference between someone who is mourning a comrade's death and someone who is completely destroyed over Crew's demise.  
  
"…After all, I am Crew Charroue."  
  
  
•  
  
    "—betray allies for an all-out war—"  
  
•  
  
Cecile Tachter is a person of many secrets.  
  
Of course, it's all part of being a spy. But lately, Cecile's starting to harbor a secret that is potentially more harmful than the truth of her identity.  
  
…Cecile Tachter is in love.  
  
She's been in love ever since she started her pilot training in the Military Department, but it's only lately that her feelings are interfering with her duties. It's only recently that she's realizing how dangerous affection is, no matter how small and trivial.  
  
Cecile frowns as she recalls Matt Mutsuruku—who insists on taking over the identity of the recently-deceased Crew Charroue—beating Dyna so thoroughly in a practice match. Matt fights as though he's possessed by a rampaging demon; there's an almost-unholy gleam on his eyes as he takes on the assessment tests and the practice matches with an unabashed eagerness to assert his capabilities as the successor of 03. Matt maintains that he has –had– no special feelings for Crew Charroue during his psychological evaluation and that only makes him more dangerous in Cecile's eyes.  
  
She needs to be careful not to end up like Matt, who is so consumed by his feelings that he doesn't even know himself anymore. She reminds herself of her mission, of her identity, of her organization at an hourly basis. She tells herself that there's absolutely no point in hanging on to her affection because the person she likes is Tyler Rex, Siobhan's older brother and The Commander.  
  
It's an unreasonable and illogical love.  
  
It's not like The Commander is a particularly helpful and kind person. It's not like The Commander is the type of person who spends time with pilots and ask how they're doing, how they're coping with the fact that young teenagers like them are the ones shouldering the responsibility of fighting for the sake of an entire country. It's not like The Commander is that good-looking.  
  
It's ridiculous.  
  
It's all very ridiculous.  
  
That's why Cecile resolves that she isn't going to think about her bizarre feelings anymore.  
  
It's the proper mindset, especially since Cecile is slinking along air vaults, crawling inch by inch to get closer to the ventilation shaft above the conference room exclusive for the top brass' meetings.  
  
When Cecile reaches her destination, the meeting is already in-progress, with The Master (the Head of Government) finishing up his proposal of the revised fund allocations. The Undertaker then pointedly inquires if said fund allocation revision is going to obstruct the money inflow to the underground cities.  
  
"You still have a huge money allocation approved to construct another underground city, yes?" The Master taps his fingers against the stack of papers in front of him, all detailing the cash flow inside Central Tower. "You shouldn't be too greedy, Miss Undertaker."  
  
The Undertaker—titled because of her position as the Head of Underground Cities—bristles at the address, slamming her hands on the round table. Cecile notes the gleam of her wedding ring under the fluorescent lights.   
  
Cecile wiggles her toes to keep the circulation going; the ventilation shaft is too cramped, as though the person who supervised the construction is well-aware of the fact that spies will mostly, well, spy on the top brass like this.  
  
"You should already be thankful that you get extra funds to extend your underground empire," The Doctor adds, smiling cheerfully even though his words have a razor-sharp edge to them, "…even though I personally think that the extra funds should go to my department."  
  
"Ni—um, Doctor, how is your research going? Are you close to discovering the reason for Grand Romania's strong new units?" The highest-ranked man in the entire country, known to everyone else as 'The Tower', looks weak like this, surrounded by the assertive and confident department heads serving directly under him. Cecile is immediately suspicious of how flustered The Tower looks. Cecile also notes that The Tower doesn't defend The Undertaker at all, even though the two of them have matching wedding rings on their left ring fingers.  
  
"Regarding Grand Romania's trick, I'm still in the middle of completing my investigation." The Doctor's voice is flippant, as though the fact that Grand Romania is growing stronger every minute isn't worth stressing over. "I've made considerable progress with fortifying SPHERES with my secret weapon though."  
  
The Commander cuts in to the conversation, "…Considerable progress?"  
  
"Oh, let's just say that I'm already in the finishing rounds of testing?"  
  
The Tower's admiring "That's great to hear!" is supplanted by The Master forcibly standing up, knocking his chair down in anger. "And you didn't care to inform us about your huge research project?!"  
  
"Hmm, well, I was busy and excited to work on my new project?"  
  
"Fucking bullshit—!"   
  
The Commander stands up as well, walking up to where The Master is, intent on calming the other down. Cecile immediately squashes the surge of something that feels suspiciously like jealousy.  
  
"But isn't it fine?" The Tower tries to diffuse the situation before it spirals out of control. "I mean, it's good news, right? G-Good work, N—um, Doctor."  
  
"You're too lax with him!" The Undertaker's chair bangs against the carpeted floors forcefully as well. She is glaring spitefully at her husband, her finger pointed accusingly at The Doctor, who remains calm and unaffected on his seat. "Who knows what experiment that guy is doing…"  
  
"You can always just ask me about my experiments, you know?" The Doctor then chuckles at the three sets of glares that pin him down. "Okay, you all look interested! Let's see, I'm constructing a six-layer hexagon-overlay shield with pico-diamond crystals as the base compound—"  
  
"Pico-diamonds? Where the hell did you get diamonds?!"  
  
Cecile strains her neck to hear the answer more clearly. She's also intensely curious—there's nobody in the world that wouldn't be. After all, gemstones, and diamonds in particular, have long disappeared from the planet.  
  
"From hell," The Doctor grins at his fellow department heads' flabbergasted expressions, "…or rather, from the Pillar of Despair."  
  
"How did you—"  
  
"Ah, ah, let's just say that Crew Charroue is such an amazing pilot that he made sure to complete his mission even as he's dying?"  
  
"He completed his mission? He actually got samples from the Pillar of Despair?"  
  
"Crew was such a gem, wasn't he?" The Doctor's smile turns a tad wistful. "You did a great job training him, Sir Commander~"  
  
"Don't mock me, Doctor." The Commander's steely voice is enough to weaken Cecile's knees and she's thankful that she's already pressed flat against the ground so she wouldn't have to suffer from the disgrace of falling down on her knees. "You were the one who trained him."  
  
"Oh! Well, I suppose this means that I did a great job then!" The Doctor gestures at the three department heads still standing, with the tension in the air not dissipating in the slightest. "And I guess this means I don't understand why you guys are mad at me if I did such a great job?"  
  
"Ni—Doctor is right," The Tower flinches when three pairs of eyes transfer their glares to him, "we should just leave this matter to him…"  
  
Cecile feels vindicated in suggesting that her organization attack immediately. With The Tower—weak, pathetic, cowardly—occupying the highest position in this country's hierarchy, there's no doubt that Central Tower will crumble down without much effort.  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake…"  
  
The Commander's right hand moves from holding The Master's shoulders to gripping The Master's elbow. "Then when can we strike back at Grand Romania?"  
  
"I've already scheduled Rei for the mission in three weeks' time~"  
  
"And when were you planning on informing the rest of us of this plan?"  
  
"How mean~" The Doctor slides a folder with mission specifics to the opposite side of the table, where The Tower is seated. "I'm informing you right now, aren't I?"  
  
"Mission proposals first need approval from The Commander before presentation to The Tower." The Master scowls and folds his hands across his chest, blatantly displaying his displeasure at his colleague's disregard of the rules. "You haven't submitted your mission proposal to The Commander, yet, doctor."  
  
The Doctor cheekily grins, baring his teeth. "And you, The Master, would know this, hmm?"  
  
"…I'm approving The Doctor's proposed mission for November 5, AC 686." The Tower places his stamp and seal on the mission proposal that he barely looked at, ending the arguments for now. "…Let's just move on to the next agenda, shall we?"  
  
There is much grumbling, but the irate department heads grudgingly make their way back to their designated seats. The Master's scowl doesn't leave his face; The Undertaker's annoyed glare doesn't simmer down; The Commander's dissatisfaction doesn't hide behind his tight smile. Nevertheless, they return to discussing other regular reports and approving routine policies.  
  
With a light tap of her fingers against her recording device, Cecile stops listening to the next topic of their conversation.  
  
Cecile Tachter is a person of many secrets.  
  
Lately, there's been a secret that's starting to affect her judgment when it comes to executing her mission perfectly.  
  
…Cecile is in love.  
  
Cecile lets her eyes linger on The Commander's angry face, before she starts to crawl backwards in brisk motions. In fifteen minutes, she needs to leave the ventilation shaft completely and establish her alibi of being in the security camera-infested library the entire time the top brass' meeting is happening.  
  
…Cecile is in love with The Commander.  
  
Cecile struggles to keep his expression carefully neutral, as she regulates her breathing, as she flips the page of the novel she's reading in plain view from the security cameras, as she feels the ground shake as the bombs she implanted on the ventilation shafts around the conference room she was spying on finally explodes.  
  
Just recently, another secret has been added to her list of treachery.  
  
…Cecile just killed the man she loves.  
  
•  
  
    "—grave robbers—"  
  
•  
  
Right after ALLEMAGNE's collapse on the January 1 AC 687, Cecile Tachter receives an emergency message from her organization. It's a message that she's been waiting for ever since her attempt to take out the top five Central Tower officers failed. It's a message that tells her, quite simply, to cut her mission short and flee back to her organization's headquarters. It's a message that sets her free.  
  
To say that the world is in a perilous situation is a gross understatement. ALLEMAGNE is rivaling FREEDOM UNION in terms of domination of the western hemisphere and before they can even make a move to further their advantage, they are suddenly crushed so thoroughly. To make matters worse, nobody has any idea who the culprit is. There's no country or organization claiming any glory in collapsing the military superpower.   
  
It's as if ALLEMAGNE just vanished in a blink.  
  
Her organization suspects that Freedom Union hired some rogue mercenaries to do a stealth sweep of Allemagne and its neighboring territories. Cecile doubts that there's such an efficient mercenary group out there, but the only other option is that Freedom Union made a deal with another country to finish off Allemagne. And Central Tower is that country, most likely.  
  
Cecile bites her lip as she stealthily surveys her surroundings. Her pre-planned escape route utilizes the many blind spots of the NEO-Beijing Headquarters' imperfect security layout and it's almost too easy for her to slip into the restricted hallways. From the data she gathered, there are plans to build a new state-of-the-art tower and for this research-focused headquarters to be transformed to a refugees' facility. It's no wonder that the security is so abysmal—Central Tower is already abandoning this place.   
  
With that thought in mind, Cecile makes a last-minute decision.  
  
She still has plenty of time before her scheduled extraction. She can still inspect this place and gather more information. She can still do a lot of things.  
  
She knows that she's just trying to redeem herself to her organization's eyes. The responsibility to kill the top brass was placed on her and she failed to answer to her organization's expectations. They didn't reprimand her but she undoubtedly lost their trust.  
  
She can still do a lot of things.  
  
One floor is dedicated for the identification and tagging of refugees from the fallen Allemagne. It takes a few moments of blinking before she ends up comprehending the sight before her. The tagging is taking place because the refugees are now prisoners of war—prisoners that are then chained right after getting tagged. The chained prisoners all have lifeless eyes and Cecile is unable to stop her curiosity from controlling her body. She takes another look at where the chained prisoners are being led to—and she regrets it almost immediately afterwards.  
  
On the end of the long hallway is an interrogation room—though to call it anything aside from 'torture chamber' is an outright lie. The prisoner currently being 'interrogated' by men in white lab coats is no other than Allemagne's number one pilot, the only surviving Allemagne pilot left.  
  
Cecile makes a run for it, clumsily tripping over the smooth floors twice, but none of the unresponsive prisoners and the busy researchers notice her.  
  
Two floors down and Cecile stumbles upon a roomful of young teenagers: all arms hooked on a medicine drip, all heads bowed down forward, all backs tattooed with serial numbers, all strapped down to their chairs.  
  
Cecile feels bile rising from her gut. She slows down, unconsciously, and witnesses one of the teenagers struggle against the straps holding him down. The serial number DA0065 stands out easily against the teen's pale back. Cecile swallows hard and makes a beeline for the headquarters' elevator reserved for transporting food supplies and other bulk containers. She is going to be extracted soon, so she can't exactly help break the prisoners out from their holding rooms—the least she can do is to communicate what she just witnessed to her organization so they can make appropriate actions to help out those entrapped by Central Tower.  
  
She overrides the security codes for the supply elevator with the all-purpose skeleton card her organization's technology department devised for her. She feels a little nauseated, but that's a normal reaction to seeing an atrocity. It's a normal reaction, she reassures herself.  
  
The low ding of the elevator jolts her out of her thoughts. Her extraction point is just a few meters away. She patiently waits for the elevator's heavy doors to slide open.  
  
There should be nobody around to watch her make an unauthorized trip to the junction between the headquarters and the underground city of NEO-Beijing.  
  
There should be nobody around.  
  
The elevator's heavy doors slide open, but before Cecile can even take a step forward, before Cecile can even react to the presence of a factor that can endanger her mission, before Cecile can even utter a word—  
  
Two pairs of red eyes—two unfeeling grins—two assassins greet her from the other side of the elevator doors.  
  
Cecile Tachter can only gasp out words that won't be picked up by her communication device, words that won't make their way back to her organization, words that won't save her.  
  
"It's you—!"  
  
•  
  
    "—if you receive this, I'm probably already—"  
  
•  
  
Green, fertile grass. Sweet, vibrant blossoms of spring. High, fluffy clouds. Bright, warm sun. Clear, blue sky.  
  
A world that is alive.  
  
That's the goal of her organization, OLYMPIA. Her organization aims to unite the world so that every single person can live their lives in safety, in hope, in peace.   
  
Her back stings, burns, hurts. She is inside a pristine, white holding room, with others seated beside her, around her, everywhere. It's very quiet here, serene even, and there's no other sound aside from the heartbeat echoing in her ears.  
  
Her head feels light. Her hairpin that doubles as her recording and communication device is gone. Her shoulders should hurt even more than her back, but they probably injected some local anesthesia to dull her sense of pain.  
  
She doesn't have shackles on her wrists like the other occupants of the room, though that's not because of her captors' consideration of her work as Central Tower pilot. She isn't shackled down by her wrists because she doesn't have her wrists anymore. Both her arms are probably already inside some sample collection cylinders. Or maybe her captors left it on the supply elevator. The sword that sliced her arms off in a neat arc feels familiar, though that's probably because Cecile's memories are already shattered and scrambled around. She finds that she doesn't really have any special attachment to her arms, though that's probably because of the drugs they are administering directly to her brain stem.  
  
The green grasslands, the springtime flowerbeds, the scorching summers: these things are only known to her because of her studies and training, because OLYMPIA believes that they can retrieve that world.   
  
It's funny, now that she spends time thinking about it.  
  
Isn't Central Tower's speeches filled with stuff about uniting people too? Isn't Olympia willing to sacrifice people so they can achieve their goals too? Aren't both of them aiming to be the only organization left standing?  
  
Isn't it funny then?  
  
She laughs—or at least, tries to—but she isn't entirely sure if she's really laughing, seeing that she can't even breathe properly, that she can't even shake her shoulders properly, that she can't even pinpoint the reason why two pairs of red eyes disturb her so.  
  
Her back hurts, continues to hurt, and if she looks down on her feet, she can barely see a serial number tagged on her toenails as well.  
  
Her serial number is DB0092.  
  
She isn't even Cecile Tachter anymore.  
  
She isn't even anyone anymore.  
  
She isn't even—  
  
•  
  
    "—all I ask of you… please find out the truth—"  
  
•  
  
 **END of fourth rotation;**  
 _the end is beginning._  
  
•••


	5. turn 05: fifth fairytale

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 05: fifth fairytale_  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot._ ???  
 _sphere._ ???  
 _rank._ ???  
  
•••  
  
Miracles.  
  
All throughout history, mankind has labeled and hailed each unexplainable, beneficial phenomenon with the word 'miracle'. It's a powerful word that is associated with people of prestigious good values, with people possessing admirable willpower, with people who are unanimously considered to deserve great things.   
  
It's a very powerful word, but he doesn't think of that word to describe his position. While it's true that he doesn't have any other explanation for his current situation, he isn't too keen on the idea of breathing a sigh of relief and praising unknown forces when this situation is just, quite simply, currently lacking a logical explanation. Once he acquires said explanation, then this situation is no longer in a position of being called a miracle.  
  
That's all there is to it.  
  
But he's still human, in the end, and he still can't completely shake off the strange feeling of wonder that latches onto his heart. He can't move much—his legs have deep gashes on them and his left ankle is twisted—so he can't explore the area, but he's somehow unable to feel affected by the insistent pain throbbing on his limbs. His hair sticks uncomfortably against his nape and he gets the urge to take a bath to scrub off the grime, sweat and dried blood on his scalp and face. His bleeding has stopped, thanks to his hastily-made bandages from his tattered uniform, but he still feels a little lightheaded from the blood loss and from the impact of him crashing into the tower.  
  
He isn't sure how many days has it been since he crashed into this place, but time feels like an alien concept now.  
  
Miracles.  
  
He isn't suffering from any concussion and his wounds are still free from any signs of gangrene. He can still remember his name and his memories. He can still feel his limbs and he can still move his fingers. He can still recall how to actually move, so his muscle memory is still working fine. He can still protect himself with his sword and gun if it comes down to it.  
  
He is still alive.  
  
Maybe it's really a miracle.  
  
After all, surviving getting sucked inside the gravitational force of the Pillar of Despair deserves an honor of being called a 'miracle'.  
  
•••  
  
Pillar of Despair  
turn 05: fifth fairytale  
  
•••  
  
pilot. DX0015 [code name: Crew Charroue]  
sphere. OPHAN [present condition: 100% triple-critical]  
rank. Central Tower [pilot status: operation license revoked, forced retirement]  
  
•  
  
If his survival against the unknown but decidedly inhospitable conditions of the Pillar of Despair can be considered a miracle, then meeting another person inside the pillar's cave-like walls is pushing the limits of impossibility.   
  
Crew's initial reaction is to pinch his arms to the point that his skin breaks, in order to ascertain that the person in front of him isn't a byproduct of his exhausted mind.   
  
But the teenager in front of him smiles brightly and introduces himself with a voice that doesn't sound burdened by his situation in the slightest, even including details that Crew isn't interested in knowing. He is Narcissus Duke, the last-ranked pilot from the Freedom Union, piloting the SPHERE called Onyx. He has a younger sister named Pearl, who is incidentally a higher-ranked pilot than him. He is always bullied by his fellow pilots and by practically everyone who knows him. He likes cooking and cats, even though he doesn't even know how to boil an egg and he's allergic to cat fur. His favorite color is yellow, but everyone else thinks his favorite is black, because of his assigned uniform and his SPHERE's paint. He enjoys singing in the bathroom and he likes surrounding himself with pillows and stuffed animals when he sleeps. His birthday is on April 1, which makes him roughly four months older than Crew.  
  
Narcissus is about to launch into another breathless exposition about himself when Crew manages to cut into the overly long and overly familiar introduction.  
  
"Oh, sorry, sorry!" Narcissus bows down repeatedly in apology, his braided silver hair waving about with the motion. "I always get carried away! I'm so sorry, please don't hate me!"  
  
Crew wonders how this person managed to survive in the world—but then he remembers the bit about being bullied constantly, and then Crew thinks that it's no wonder the bullies can't resist antagonizing him.  
  
"It's fine," and it really is. Crew is only too thankful that there's another person here with him, even if said person appears to be a child despite being older.   
  
"It's just that," Narcissus rubs the back of his neck bashfully, "well, I've been alone here since April and, well—"  
  
"I left for my mission on September 18." Crew stares at the person in front of him. The lighting here is quite dim—Crew isn't even sure where is the light coming from—so he can't quite notice the dirt sticking on the other's clothes, can't quite see the scrapes on the other's face, can't quite perceive desperation on the other's cheery expression. Normal people would go crazy from being alone, for five months, in a place where there's nobody around, in a place where there's nothing resembling hope, in a place that leads to nowhere. Crew now regards Narcissus in a different light; Narcissus is most definitely not a normal person. "You've been here for five months, then."  
  
"I don't really understand time anymore," Narcissus confesses with an apologetic half-shrug and Crew understands it completely. Even though he thinks it's been five months since April, he can't be completely sure that it's only been a few days ever since his mission went haywire. In a place where there's no known escape, time loses its meaning quickly. "All I know is… I'm happy."  
  
…Happy?  
  
"Happy?" Crew echoes the word, bewildered beyond belief. He watches Narcissus reach out to grab him by his shoulder, presumably so they can both go to where Narcissus has set up camp for himself. His feet are numb—he hasn't moved from his seating position for quite some time, slowing his legs' blood circulation; his left ankle is still twisted in an unnatural direction—but he should be able to manage walking, albeit really sluggishly, as long as he can lean against someone.  
  
"Yeah, I'm happy," Narcissus has a very boyish smile, "I'm finally not alone."  
  
Crew supposes that he should feel a pang of anger at that—after all, Narcissus might not be alone anymore, but his companionship comes at the price of Crew not being able to return to where he belongs. But Crew doesn't feel anger, doesn't even feel irritation.   
  
…Crew just feels that he finds Narcissus interesting and worth knowing more about.  
  
•  
  
The city of Ankara is beneath his feet.  
  
…The city of Ankara, the capital city of the Turkey from the Old Earth, is quite literally, beneath his feet.  
  
Crew isn't sure what to think about the sight surrounding him, so he just stands there, a little apprehensive about being too close against the shifting walls that have names and buildings painted on them, slightly leaning against Narcissus in order to avoid straining his still-unhealed foot. Narcissus' pale face almost glows under the mysterious, hazy lighting of the cave's insides and Crew instead focuses his eyes on the swirling cities on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floors.  
  
If his hunch is correct, then it means that the Pillar of Despair has been sucking cities-countries-territories inside its walls through some unexplained mechanism. It also means that the Pillar's magnetic field or force field or whatever is definitely strong enough to eventually eat up all the world's landmasses. Crew wants his hunch to be proven wrong—because where will that leave this world? Crew doesn't really have any attachment towards the brittle air and the arid earth, but he is, quite regretfully, attached to his life in this world. To his life as a pilot, to his life as a pilot alongside Matt.  
  
…Matt.  
  
It's been quite some time since Crew allowed his thoughts to stray to his partner pilot, not because he has somehow grown to dislike Matt, but because it will only make his exile-of-sorts more unbearable. Crew grits his teeth as he thinks of how dire his situation is, beneath the civility he shares with Narcissus, beneath the controlled composure he clings to. There's no way Central Tower will risk another destroyed SPHERE just to come for him and they probably already assumed that he's dead. He has no means of communicating his status back to the headquarters and he has no method of leaving the tower that seems intent to trap him inside.  
  
"Um, Crew?" Narcissus speaks up with his pathetically weak voice and Crew snaps out of his thoughts. He looks down to where his right hand is clutching Narcissus' left elbow with bruising force. "Uh, well, you see, you're kinda hurting me?"  
  
There's definitely a fault in Freedom Union's system of selecting pilots if someone like Narcissus is a pilot, no matter how low his rank is. Crew understands that there's no point dumping his frustrations on the older teen though, so he slowly releases his grip on the reddening elbow. "Sorry," he mumbles, a bit uncomfortable with saying an apology, but also aware that he's the one in the wrong in this situation.  
  
"It's okay," Narcissus softly replies, and Crew knows he's forgiven, because Narcissus doesn't stand farther away from him and doesn't pull back his elbow either.   
  
With that matter settled, Crew shifts his thoughts to his little theory. After further contemplation, there's a huge setback to Crew's idea about the Pillar functioning as a very powerful magnet: he and Narcissus are alive, inside the dismal tower, and they're not being forcibly pulled towards the center. If the tower really can suck in countries, it should have no problem sucking in two pilots. But Crew is still alive, which means that there's something else, something more to the fluctuating images on the walls.  
  
Crew looks down and is only mildly surprised to see that instead of Ankara, Istanbul is now dancing underneath his messily-bandaged feet. For an ephemeral, traitorous moment—Crew imagines The Doctor standing beside him, a bag of sample collection cylinders on one hand, a magnifier lens on another. Not entirely unlike the ache he felt when he thought of Matt, Crew feels an odd twinge when he thinks about how The Doctor will most probably smile like a little kid when he sees how the ancient world is practically revolving around the Pillar of Despair. For someone as inquisitive and information-hungry as The Doctor, this is quite possibly his opportunity of a lifetime.  
  
…It's a bit of a waste that he, someone who isn't so keen about observing samples taken from the crumbling environment, is the one here instead.


	6. turn 06: sixth stardust

•••  
  
**Pillar of Despair**  
_turn 06: sixth stardust_  
  
(— submergence—)  
  
•••  
  
_pilot_. Lyra  
_sphere_. VEGA  
_rank_. Archadia – 03  
  
•  
  
_pilot_. Stella  
_sphere_. RIGEL  
_rank._ Archadia – 02  
  
•  
  
She is always in the middle.  
  
•  
  
She, Stella, is always second.  
  
•  
  
Being in the middle means not being the best in anything, just as it means not being the worst in anything either. She hates it—she thinks she'd rather that she's the worst-ranked pilot rather than stagnate in the exact median of the rankings.  
  
Being in the middle means not getting the most dangerous missions, means not getting the easiest missions either. She hates it—she thinks she'd rather get the laughably easy tasks rather than perform well in a mission that is so painfully average.  
  
Being in the middle means being presented with two options that Lyra both can't take without destroying something that Lyra cares about.  
  
…Being in the middle hurts.  
  
•  
  
Being second in the pilot rankings didn't bother her before.  
  
It's only when the previous ranked 01 retired and was replaced by Leo that Stella started to feel dissatisfaction with being ranked second in the overall pilot assessment. It's only when Leo—who entered ARCHADIA's pilot program a year later than her, despite the two of them being of the same age—takes the top spot that Stella begins to doubt herself and her position. It's only when Leo—with his freckled face, wild hair and brash laughter—becomes popular amongst everyone in Archadia that Stella begins to look at herself differently.  
  
Being second in the pilot rankings really, really, didn't bother her before.  
  
Remaining second in other things, in other situations, in other rankings, on the other hand...  
  
...Remaining second-fiddle hurts.  
  
•  
  
Leo joining the line-up of ARCHADIA's pilots is possibly the worst thing to happen in recent memory. Not that many others would agree to that sentiment—those who didn't manage to completely escape from the reach of the effects of Herzog Kingdom's collapse will most probably disagree that such a small thing is enough to be called 'the worst'; those who lost loved ones and dreams and futures to the hands of teenage children aboard too-powerful SPHERES will most likely beg to differ on the qualifications of an event being dubbed 'the worst'—but Lyra stands by her sentiment with all her heart.  
  
Lyra resents being in the middle, but she resents it no matter who are the ones taking the pilot ranks around her.  
  
…Lyra resents Leo for an entirely different reason.  
  
It's not that there's actually something wrong with Leo. With light freckles on his face, flame-red hair that appears to defy the concepts of physics and combs, rambunctious laughter that seems so out-of-place in this world that is mostly gloomy clouds and arid soil, Leo seems like a person who should easily find his way to a person's good graces. Leo's skill with handling his temperamental machine, SIRIUS, is something that undoubtedly deserves praise and awe. Lyra actually used to see Leo as someone who is a welcome presence inside the statues-filled hallways of ARCHADIA's headquarters.  
  
…Lyra used to find Leo okay.  
  
But finding Leo okay is apparently not the right way to approach things and Lyra hates the way she finds out about that in the worst way possible.  
  
Lyra considers Stella to be her most valuable friend. Despite the slight difference in their ages, both of them were born to the exact same kingdom, from the exact same city, in the exact same hospital. Their families even came from the same neighborhood, and it followed that the two of them then attended the exact same preparatory pilot training for children aged eight and below. During the chaos that instantly flooded the entirety of Herzog Kingdom's territories upon its above-ground government's collapse, both their families used the exact same evacuation measures and took refuge in the exact same allied country.  
  
The two of them possess a connection that goes deep, too deep for any stranger with wild hair-wild laughter-wild personality to mess with. The two of them possess a bond and Lyra will never allow anything to get in the way of that. Even when both their families were charged with the high treason for selling information to the black market outside the country, Stella was the one who held her hand and guided her to a place where nobody can prosecute them as accomplices to their families' actions.  
  
Without her birth country and without her birth family, Stella is the only one left for her.  
  
And since Stella is the only left for her, there's no room for Leo's furtive glances and flirtatious smiles. There's absolutely no room for Lyra to even think of Leo as remotely close to okay, not when Lyra knows that Stella is very taken with Leo.  
  
Lyra resents Leo because his very obvious attraction is placing her in the middle of Stella's love for him.  
  
Lyra resents it, because she knows that it will be too noticeable if she suddenly starts giving Leo the cold shoulder, after months of being okay with him. From her experience, discouraging one's advances most frequently results in the pursuer doubling his efforts. Leo does seem like the type to be impassioned by rejection. Lyra resents it, because she knows Stella well and Stella will only tell her that she shouldn't immediately judge Leo as worthless and to give him a chance.  
  
Lyra resents being in the middle, especially of messy one-sided affections.  
  
•  
  
Stella can feel the electronic hum of RIGEL's machineries beneath her fingertips and she wishes it can lull her to a peaceful state of mind, for the sake of her mission. It's a good thing that today's work is a team mission; she can afford to make a tiny mistake because Paul and his BETELGEUSE are there to cover for her.  
  
…Well, that's not a promising train of thought to have while one is waiting for the inspections to finish so she can proceed to launching. Perimeter checks are becoming more dangerous lately; the West Asia-Europe plate is becoming quite crowded, with countries' borders pressing up against each other uncomfortably. Despite the relative safety that comes with routine checks, Stella supposes that she can't really afford to not bring her A-game whenever she ventures out of the headquarters.  
  
It's sadistic almost, how fate is towards the so-called 'chosen children'. It's true that there's a blossom of pride somewhere, when she thinks about how she has the power to make an awe-inspiring machine move according to her whim, when she thinks about how there are thousands counting on her strength to bring them peace and security. At its best condition, RIGEL has an estimated destructive power equal to one hundred Meteor Missiles. It's a terrifying power entrusted upon the hands of an otherwise-normal fifteen-year-old.  
  
In exchange for pride, power and prestige, Stella needs to destroy a lot of other peoples' dreams.  
  
She has no use for the promised lifetime luxury package awaiting her retirement. When she left for the headquarters above-ground, her parents started to associate with rebel groups willing to buy information regarding ARCHADIA's infrastructure and security details. That's why, she has no family to return to once she retires, she has no family to share her lifetime of government subsidies. But Stella continues to pilot RIGEL, in exchange for a place to belong to, in exchange for a life that has a shred of meaning, in exchange for a few moments of not being like everybody else.  
  
Stella isn't like everybody else, that's why her crush remains just that: a mere crush. Lyra is resisting Leo with all her might and she shouldn't. Stella doesn't mind it, even if it will mean she will be second to Lyra when it comes to matters of romance; that's more than fine with her. That's something that Stella doesn't mind being second-place to, because it will bring her childhood friend happiness. Maybe not the supreme type of happiness that goes hand-in-hand with true love and utter contentment, but it's a simple type of happiness that Leo's brash attitude can bring.  
  
The screen in front of her starts flashing the launch sequence, jolting her out of her musings that somehow spiraled down to thoughts of Leo. She shouldn't think about him any longer. She should, on the other hand, talk to Lyra and tell her that she thinks that it will do Lyra well if she starts giving Leo a chance. Since both of them don't have to worry about family opinion regarding their choice of romantic pursuits, Stella can be the one to give the blessing instead.  
  
"Hey, Stella-star, you okay?" Paul's singsong voice spills out from the voice-only communication initiated by BETELGEUSE. "You've been spacing out for quite some timeeee~♪"  
  
Stella blinks—blinks the wetness away from her eyes.  
  
Eh?  
  
…How strange.  
  
Her hands fly to her face, roughly patting the area around her eyes. She's quite certain that she isn't allergic to her contact lenses and she's also sure that she used an adequate amount of eye moisture solution earlier.  
  
How very strange.  
  
…She's crying?  
  
Stella bites her lip, fingers numbly entering the code to override all communication link requests and divert them to voice-only transmissions. She can't let anybody see her in tears, minutes before the official start of a mission. She can't let anybody see her tears in response to her thoughts of giving blessing for Lyra to accept Leo's affections. She just can't.  
  
She didn't even weep when she learned that her family has been prosecuted as traitors to the state, didn't even sob when she was desperate for life as she fled from the collapsing Herzog Kingdom, didn't even cry when she was told that she would remain as second-rank instead of getting promoted. She didn't even cry during all those times—and now this. There are plenty of other atrocities happening all over the world. There are plenty other injustices occurring to the people imprisoned underground. There are plenty other unfortunate events befalling the countries above-ground. That's why her situation—her petty, teenage, shallow situation—doesn't deserve tears.  
  
"S'rry," she manages after spending a few moments to regain her composure, her hands now finished with wiping away her tears, "I've been thinking 'bout our mission."  
  
"…About a totally normal, completely routine perimeter check?"  
  
"Yeah," Stella breathes out, ignoring the disbelief coloring her mission partner's words. She refocuses her concentration on getting through the now-approved launch sequence without any beginner-grade blunders.  
  
RIGEL and all other Archadia SPHEREs are designed based on the original blueprint that Archadia discovered on its founding years. The first, the original, SPHERE blueprint that the world has ever seen came from Archadia's excavation sites. Archadia built all its SPHEREs based on the original blueprint's concept of focusing on flight and long-range attacks. It may not be too creative, but Archadia's SPHEREs all take forms of stars.  
  
Stella unfolds the ten-pointed star flight form of RIGEL as soon as she exits the launch pad and enters the outside atmosphere. Paul's four-pointed star form of BETELGEUSE is already finished with its unfolding.  
  
Seeing BETELGEUSE quickly finishing its launching sequence intensifies her bad feeling about Paul's not-that-easily-apparent excitement in performing this mission. Paul is usually a very enthusiastic person, but Stella feels that his eagerness manifests in rather dangerous forms, most of the time. When it comes to missions, to say that Paul is… trigger-happy is an understatement. Stella actually doesn't mind Paul taking missions very seriously, but perimeter checks are supposed to be routine missions that do not require violence.  
  
She briefly entertains the idea of gently telling Paul to tone down his missile overuse, but before she can even voice out her thoughts, Paul and BETELGEUSE are already moving towards the first mission checkpoint at an accelerated speed. The mission timeline's blinking cursor changes from the safe-zone green to a warning-orange. Stella worries her lower lip between her teeth, changing RIGEL's speed to match BETELGEUSE's. She speeds up as well, not only to satisfy her mission timeline, but also because there's still a chance to stop Paul from finding suspicious activity on very still areas and bombing the hell out of said 'suspicious areas'.  
  
Thoughts about Lyra and Leo and other stuff that she shouldn't think about are then buried underneath thoughts of limiting Paul's destructive method of doing things, of fulfilling the expectations placed on her shoulders.  
  
And that's the way it should be.  
  
•  
  
Lyra has no delusions about it being an entirely rational decision.  
  
Or rather, her decision makes perfect, logical sense in her mind, but she isn't banking on the others following her reasoning.  
  
And that's fine—more than fine, really.  
  
Part of the appeal of her decision is that everybody else surely won't read too deeply into this.  
  
In all honesty, she's really just doing nothing short of running away from her problems.  
  
And that's fine with her.  
  
Lyra is willing to do anything just so she can stop being squished in the middle.  
  
Leo's affections don't seem to be dying out soon—especially if she considers the rather extravagant lunch Leo has oh-so-generously offered to her yesterday. The staff gossip and giggle whenever she and Leo somehow coincidentally appear in the same room, never mind the fact that both of them are pilots and are thus expected to attend a huge number of similar meetings. It sometimes feels that she is the only one inside the ARCHADIA Headquarters who disagrees with the fact that she and Leo make a good couple.  
  
Stella is doing her best at being supportive of Leo's attempts at wooing Lyra, but Lyra isn't blind to the pain clouding Stella's eyes. Stella's affections for Leo, too, don't seem to be dying out—especially if she considers the way that Stella is starting to be more bipolar in her treatment of the 01. Leo is unfortunately blind to all the blinking signs signifying Stella's affections for him—and the entire ARCHADIA Headquarters too, is oblivious to the explanation behind Stella frequently flipping between praise and criticism towards Leo.  
  
The two factors trapping Lyra in the middle aren't budging at all—that's why it's up to her to break free.  
  
—Paul is okay.  
  
Now though, Lyra is starting to think that she's still trapped in the middle.  
  
Paul presses open-mouthed kisses against her left shoulder.  
  
(And Lyra looks at the birthmark on Paul's left shoulder with half-lidded eyes and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his twin, Castor.)  
  
Paul then moves his kisses back to her cheeks, to her forehead, to her hair. Lyra feels her fingers tremble as she commands them return the gentle touches. She is a little guilty, because despite Paul's infamous violence when it comes to inflicting BETELGEUSE on his targets, Paul is a kind, friendly person. Paul is kind, unlike her, who only knows how to use people as shields as she runs away from her problems.  
  
Lyra wiggles her toes against Paul's socks-covered calves.  
  
(And Lyra feels the texture of the bright red socks that are a gift from Leo and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his best friend, Leo.)  
  
Paul then drums his fingers against the curve of her hip, touch steadily venturing lower. Lyra feels her thigh muscles tense, half in anticipation and half in danger-wary instinct. She thinks she is more than a little lucky to have someone like Paul as someone like her fuck-buddy. A shallow relationship isn't anything ground-breaking or original in this world of ashen skies and charcoal grounds, but Lyra still feels a twinge of uneasiness with succumbing to a meaningless experience like this. She convinces herself that it isn't so bad: living the life of a SPHERE pilot means facing danger every single second, so what's the harm in trying to enjoy it a little more?  
  
Paul murmurs a question, the question, breathes the words against her ear, and Lyra nods and lifts her hips a little upwards as an encouragement.  
  
(And Lyra watches Paul reach out to his bedside drawer, bypassing the thick stack of mission files in order to reach for the lubricant and the contraceptive, and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his mission partner, Stella.)  
  
Lyra traces the beads of sweat forming at Paul's temples, welcoming the warmth that envelopes their bodies. It's nothing but meaningless sex that happens in-between mission briefings, but it's something to preoccupy herself with, something to firmly reject Leo with, something to indulge herself with.  
  
It's nothing.  
  
And from the disinterested glimmer that settles in Paul's eyes a few moments after they have both reached orgasm, Lyra is certain that this is nothing to Paul as well.  
  
And that's the way it should be.  
  
•  
  
The New Year celebrations are on full swing: with artificial fireworks lighting up the hologram panels enclosing the headquarters, with underground plazas filling up with people from different districts, with buffet food and drinks disappearing into empty stomachs. The year 685 is welcomed by good cheer, even though Stella knows that there's nothing to be enthusiastic about the quickening passage of time. Humanity, as a whole, clings to tradition—that's the only reason January 1 remains an important date to the rest of the world.  
  
Bearing the name 'Ancient Wonder' with pride, ARCHADIA follows and reveres tradition above all else. And as the 02 pilot of Archadia, Stella is expected to follow tradition. That's the only reason why she's here, in a hall filled with people out of their dreary uniforms for once, chattering and laughing about things that don't have anything to do with the government's plans to build a new SPHERE, grinning and joking about issues that are far-flung from the talks of limiting the underground city populations through whatever means necessary.  
  
As a pilot whose job is to, well, pilot RIGEL, Stella doesn't have much interest in discussing the dreadful reality. But seeing her fellow pilots and engineers and the higher-ups smiling and laughing as though there's nothing wrong with Archadia's foundations, as though tomorrow and its realities won't arrive no matter how much they are ignored… Stella doesn't want them to ignore the issues blatantly in front of their eyes.  
  
But she is a pilot, a mere second-rank even, and as a pilot whose job is to make RIGEL move, Stella can't do anything about it.  
  
Just like she can't do anything but sulk in her vibrant red dress, as she eyes the way Lyra allows Paul to invade her personal space so thoroughly. It's been what three(?)—four(?) months since Lyra and Paul started their no-strings-attached relationship that is apparently only driven by teenage hormones that have nothing to do with piloting SPHEREs. It's been that long and Lyra still hasn't admitted anything to her, hasn't even attempted to tell her of her new relationship.  
  
Stella understands that Lyra doesn't have any obligation to report to her about her personal life.  
  
Stella understands.  
  
She really, really does.  
  
But she keeps on sulking anyway, because it hurts to be second when it comes to her childhood friend, her very best friend, her only friend.  
  
Stella glares at the gloved hand that plays with the ends of Lyra's chocolate braid. Stella scowls at the sight of Lyra's fingers disappearing inside the ruffles of Paul's cravat. Stella hates it.  
  
"Let's drink." Leo offers her a glass of some unknown solution that smells vaguely alcoholic. "Happy New Year, Stella."  
  
Stella attempts to fix her expression into something that can pass for congenial. "Yeah, thanks. Happy New Year."  
  
"You don't look too lively," Leo observes as he settles on the seat beside hers. Their table's other occupants are all milling around the space that has been designated as the dance floor, drunkenly swaying to the upbeat music blaring out of the speakers that broadcasts mission controls for the most part of the year. Stella quells her urge to snap at Leo, to ask him to leave her alone in her sulking, but Leo is staring at her, actually paying attention to her instead of just asking her about Lyra's whereabouts. It's surreal and admittedly kind of nice—Leo is a nice person and it doesn't hurt to be friendly to her fellow pilots.  
  
Still, Leo hanging out in empty tables—instead of stuffing his face with food and stuffing other people's lives with laughter from his too-entertaining-to-be-true anecdotes—is bewildering.  
  
"Why are you here, anyway?" Stella takes a sip—then one more, then another—of the strangely bittersweet beverage that Leo offered. She wills her gaze to stop straying to the other corner of the room where Lyra and Paul are starting to make themselves comfortable, seemingly uncaring if the higher-ups or if their fellow pilots see them. "You're not gonna dance or break-dance or something?"  
  
The holographic images change into a beautiful fireworks display arranged into a rose in full bloom. Stella finds it curious that the red from the lighting lends itself so easily on Leo's cheeks.  
  
"W-Well, I just finished finishing off three plates, so dancing immediately after is a bit…"  
  
"Ah," Stella smiles a little easier now, twirling a lock of her red hair between her unoccupied fingers. Her right hand nurses her drink, swirls the unknown liquid gently. She tries to relax her stance, tries to feel the cheeriness practically soaking the entire headquarters, but her eyes keep on wandering and settling upon the too-close figures of Lyra and her fuck-buddy.  
  
"…you okay?" Leo ventures again, the red on his cheeks still present despite the change on the holographic displays. "I-If you don't mind, because I don't mind, I swear, then, maybe if you want, if you don't mind that is, we can talk? Or we can dance! Or maybe not. We can drink and talk, and, well, if you want. We. Uh."  
  
Stella laughs a little, amused that even the number one pilot can be incoherent under the influence of alcohol. Leo is probably looking for someone to commiserate with; he's probably shocked to witness his best friend being touchy-feely with Lyra. Leo is probably the same as her, more than a little lonely at being ignored in favor of a lust-driven relationship.  
  
"…Let's drink," Stella clinks her glasses against Leo's, her drink sloshing against the glass, the sound tinkling in her ears.  
  
Leo looks like he wants to say something else, like he wants to add some words to the empty cheer Stella offers, but he decides not to, opting instead to flash his trademark cheerful grin.  
  
Stella tries to follow the shadows of Lyra and Paul disappearing into the maze-like corridors outside the party hall, but the alcohol is blurring her eyesight and Leo's smile is ruining her concentration. Stella smiles bitterly, bites the inside of her cheeks hard enough to draw blood, but she settles on her seat more comfortably, resigning to her fate of being merely second to her friend.  
  
•  
  
While there's no upheld rule regarding the number of participants involved in clashes between countries-at-war, the entire world has been pitting SPHERE pilots one against one. Lyra doesn't know when and where that tradition-of-sorts can be traced back, but it's something that's been followed for ten years since the beginning of the most recent war that has engulfed the world. She's only too happy to follow that unspoken code between teenage warriors, because having too many participants involved in a certain event just calls for extremely messy mission reports.  
  
That's why Lyra is on standby at the moment, fingers motionless atop her control keyboard, eyes wide as she takes in the sight of two other SPHEREs performing their mission of patrolling the unclaimed aerial territory of the NEO-Atlantic Ocean. The flag emblazoned on the bright red SPHERE's arms and chest tells Lyra that one of the pilots is from Freedom Union; the sword crest painted on the black SPHERE's upper left chest shows Lyra that the other pilot hails from Allemagne.  
  
Two countries from the other side of the NEO-Atlantic Ocean—and Lyra is ill-equipped to fight them.  
  
Perimeter checks aren't supposed to be dangerous, that's why Lyra is on this mission alone, without back-up from her mission partner. Castor is busy doing his own perimeter check on the lower seas, while her other fellow pilots have their hands full with their respective missions. There's nobody out there who can back Lyra up in case she ends up attracting unwanted attention from any of the two other SPHEREs floating in front of her. Her communication line with the headquarters has been cut-off by the severe winds and it's not showing any signs of returning soon. Even if there were people available to help her out from her bind, she has absolutely no way of relaying her situation to them.  
  
She's screwed.  
  
Lyra contemplates using a flash bomb to momentarily cripple the two SPHEREs, but there's no way the flash bombs in her arsenal are strong enough to defeat the vision radar of Allemagne's 01 SPHERE. She also considers simply inelegantly running away from the tense situation, but Freedom Union's 05 SPHERE is rather well-known for its speed.  
  
Escape isn't an option.  
  
Lyra hates being in the middle—especially of brewing international fights like the one she stumbled upon.  
  
It's not even a month after the start of the new year and people are already eager to spill the blood of others. It's a dismaying thought, but Lyra nevertheless prepares to unload her stash of flash bombs unto the triangular space connecting her VEGA to the two other SPHEREs. Her VEGA has the second-best defense mechanism in the entire ARCHADIA, so she's counting on that ability help protect her in case she needs to focus her energy into fleeing once Freedom Union and Allemagne start exchanging blows.  
  
Lyra feels VEGA whining, hissing, as the cables slither around to bring the SPHERE's formation into its optimal defense formation, the octahedral star. The calculations flash in front of her eyes, but she is content with allowing her SPHERE to take over the specific calculations since she isn't that technically-inclined anyway. Her fingers are now poised to start entering the keyword values required for VEGA to release the flash bombs, but before she can even start typing the correct sequence, something unexpected happens.  
  
Suddenly, the black SPHERE's humanoid hands rise up to make a placating gesture, to perform an action that's universally understood as a sign of surrender; Allemagne's 01 requests a three-way public communication transmission.  
  
Dumbfounded by the strange turn of events, Lyra accepts the communication request, only to be shocked even more. Allemagne's 01 freely broadcasts its pilot's face, unhindered by any scrambling signal, unhidden by any ceremonial mask. Allemagne's number one pilot, Gloria Shkval, is smiling gently at the other end of the line, no trace of condescension or treachery visible on her expression. Lyra opens her mouth to start demanding what the hell is this about, but the other pilot connected in the three-way line beats her to the punch.  
  
"What the hell?" Freedom Union's fifth-ranked pilot—Esmeralda Cordovan Cornell, according to the quick search on the international pilots database—cuts into the tense silence. Esmeralda must have neglected to switch off the connection between her motor actions and her SPHERE, since the bright red TOPAZ is emulating her every frustrated huff and every uncoordinated flailing. "What's the big idea, Ms. Number One?"  
  
Lyra worries her lower lip between her teeth. She's ranked higher than Esmeralda, but there's not much point comparing rankings between different nations. Lyra doesn't have the confidence and the stupidity to try to take on someone from the second-strongest country, just like she doesn't have a death wish to try to fight the ranked-one pilot of the military-focused Allemagne. Sweet diplomacy is possibly the only thing that can let her escape this situation with minimal damage, so Lyra sets out to stop Esmeralda from spouting more brash words.  
  
But yet again, Gloria Shkval exceeds her expectations.  
  
"I'd like to propose that we just continue with our missions without any fights or bloodshed." Gloria's gentle smile doesn't fade from her face, her blue eyes clear and untarnished by the unstable transmission signal. "There's no point having any scuffle for just a normal perimeter check, is there?"  
  
Lyra sinks to her not-very-comfortable seat, relief flooding her veins. It's true that one of Allemagne's distinguishing traits is their willingness to use violent force at every possible situation, but this generation of Allemagne pilots is apparently more sensible. Lyra isn't foolish enough to mistake the levelheaded decision to avoid a fight for weakness. Only the truly strong have the right and the confidence to propose something as ridiculous as a temporary ceasefire when the each country is at war with practically everyone else. Lyra has a feeling that Gloria is just as willing to fight the one who rejects her proposal. It's not a feeling backed by any logical explanations, but instinct is very important when it comes to matters involving life and death.  
  
Unafraid and uncaring whether she's seen as a coward who turns tail from danger, Lyra replies before Esmeralda can even think of souring the proposal, "You're right. Let's just go on our respective missions, okay?"  
  
The breathing from another end of the line is far from what one would consider to be calm and pacified, so Lyra quickly mutters her excuse and a brief goodbye, before shifting VEGA's focus on propelling itself backwards, far away from the other two SPHEREs. Lyra supposes that it's a good opportunity to get data on how Allemagne's 01 fights against Freedom Union's 05, but it's a better opportunity at staying alive and uninjured.  
  
Lyra hates being in the middle of life and death, so she's only too happy to take her chance at fleeing from danger.  
  
And it doesn't matter if anyone and everyone thinks she's a coward.  
  
•  
  
Normally, she doesn't make it a habit to hang around the launch hangar unless it's necessary. But right now, Stella feels that this is the only safe place for her. She settles on RIGEL's pilot seat, bringing her feet up and hugging her knees close to her chest. RIGEL's pilot area is usually cramped with cables and wires, but said wirings are not lowered to the pilot seat when RIGEL is not activated for battle. With or without much breathing space, Stella still would prefer to be locked inside her SPHERE.  
  
Lyra is probably off to some mission briefing or maybe she's locked inside some storage room with Paul or maybe she's doing something else entirely. Lyra is off gallivanting around while she is here, unbelievably furious with the way things are going. Stella takes great care to control her impulse to bring her knuckles down on the deactivated control panels; a reprimand from the higher-ups at this time is the last thing she needs.  
  
Once again, Stella is second.  
  
The higher-ups tell her bullshit about how they want the security of a hundred-percent percent certainty of winning.  
  
The opponent is just that exceptionally weak country, Grand Romania. The opponent is a country that Stella has succeeded against countless times. The opponent is starting to recruit some new pilots but the top two pilots haven't really changed much. The opponent still has that asshole Ash Vlastvier, a person that Stella is unfortunately familiar with because of their common roots in Herzog Kingdom.  
  
The opponent is someone Stella is a thousand percent sure she can defeat.  
  
Stella grits her teeth at the thought of the simple battle mission going to Leo's hands. With the way things are going, Leo is going to keep on getting more and more missions, making it impossible for Stella to get missions that can elevate her ratings and propel her up in the rankings. And as long as Stella is second, the best missions are going to bypass her continuously and Leo will continually become number one, far away from Stella's reach. It's a vicious cycle and Stella is helpless to stop it, not as long as the higher-ups think that Leo is the only one capable of attaining a hundred-percent certainty of finishing a mission favorably for ARCHADIA's sake.  
  
It's frustrating, because it's not even Grand Romania's 01 they're targeting. The target for the mission is the ranked-second, Davy Black. Sure, he's an heir to Grand Romania's royal family and that makes him quite an important figure, but he's still ranked second. He's just the same rank as her, and because Grand Romania's SPHEREs are shitty and ill-equipped with the proper machineries for fighting, that same number rank means nothing.  
  
Stella is still much stronger.  
  
It's just Grand Romania's 02. Stella would understand the higher-ups' choice if the mission is against Grand Romania's 01, she really would.  
  
Grand Romania is weak, but Ash Vlastvier is a monster.  
  
Stella had the displeasure of working with Ash before, when they were still pre-school children who were just following whatever the government assigned them to do, whether it was attempting to make sense of quantum physics, or whether it was understanding the mechanics of killing another person.  
  
Pre-school children doing things that not even most adults can manage isn't anything new, especially so during the time when Herzog Kingdom still existed. But amongst all the fighting elites and geniuses that Herzog Kingdom produced from its early-onset training programs, Ash Vlastvier remains the worst monster of them all.  
  
Ash has a certain beast-like quality in him. Stella has never seen anyone else harbor such an intense need for destruction, just like she has never seen someone that at ease amidst chaos and pain. That's why Stella would understand it if the higher-ups deem her chances of winning against Ash to be less than perfect. She thinks she can win against Ash, but she has some doubts about it. Even though ARCHADIA's SPHEREs are better than Grand Romania's, the result of a battle isn't determined solely by the SPHERE's capabilities. Knowing Ash, he probably won't hesitate crawling out of his own SPHERE just so he can drag his opponent out into a place where Ash can make him bleed with his own hands.  
  
That's why, that's why, that's why—that's why Stella doesn't understand why she isn't enough to fight against some second-rate pilot who probably just got his rank because of his standing in the Grand Romanian society. The opponent is just Grand Romania and the opponent isn't even Ash.  
  
"Stella—? You thereeee? Stellaaaaa—?"  
  
The voice is familiar, painfully so, but Stella doesn't lift her head from its place atop her knees. She doesn't acknowledge the person who probably came looking for her after his mission briefing has ended. She doesn't reply to the drawn-out calls of her name, even if the noise is starting to grate on her eardrums. She doesn't want to talk to Leo who will probably just spout off some nonsense about how everything is going to be just fine.  
  
"Hey—! Stellaaaaaaaa—"  
  
The idiot's presence just reminds her that her birthday party is in a couple of hours and she's currently having the shittiest day of her life.  
  
Stella hates it.  
  
Stella hates being second.  
  
And most of all, Stella hates—  
  
•  
  
In retrospect, it's something that Lyra has already expected. The reality unfolding in front of her eyes is just something that meets the boundaries of her expectations, something that bridges the gap between the opposite ends of probability. She thinks that she doesn't have any emotion, positive or negative, attached to the realization that dawns on her.  
  
The frequency of it happening has been increasing at a steady pace ever since the beginning; that's why there's no hint of surprise that crosses her mind or her facial expression.  
  
—"Hey, I'll need to go help Castor," Paul once said with startling urgency, his twin brother's distress apparently communicable via psychic brain waves since Lyra could feel Paul's entire body on top of her and there had been absolutely no vibrations from the alarm system they each have installed. Heavy make-out session number six hundred and four ended with Paul's hurried dash out of the empty store room they had commandeered for themselves.  
  
Admittedly, Lyra is in the relationship-of-sorts with Paul because of the appeal of releasing stress through pleasurable channels, but she honestly isn't addicted or dependent to the sex. It's pleasurable, yes, endorphins and hormones going on overdrive in order to create one of the headiest feelings known to mankind. It's not something that Lyra absolutely needs, and it's something that Lyra doesn't mind getting interrupted.  
  
Honestly.  
  
Lyra understands the concept of placing someone high above in one's priorities, too high up for anybody else to even hope to compete with. That top spot is usually reserved for one's most important person, oftentimes one's family. It's not an unfamiliar concept to Lyra, since she herself has someone she considers her family—her only family left—to be the most important person in her life.  
  
Being in the middle of the twins' priorities is exhausting though. Lyra has long tired of trying to count the number of times that Paul asking her to take time out of her schedule, only for him to back out at the last possible minute just so he can be with his brother. It's even worse when it comes to her mission partner, Castor, who had declined particular missions that he felt would interfere with the quality time he could spend with his twin. Aside from the bewilderment that comes with the knowledge that the higher-ups tolerate Castor's pickiness with his missions for the shallowest reasons, Lyra is tired of being in the middle of the two.  
  
Almost amazingly, Lyra hasn't filed for her mission partner to be reconsidered yet. Almost mysteriously, Lyra hasn't mentioned any complaints or hints about wanting to end her relationship with Paul. Almost miraculously, Lyra continues to keep up being in the middle of two twins that both have connections to her.  
  
Lyra tells herself that it isn't because she has started to grow attached to the idea of having someone constant in her life, or more crudely, in her bed. She convinces herself that it isn't because she has started to witness the value of having someone who she has known for quite some time as her partner for dangerous missions. She assures herself that it isn't because she has gone soft or anything.  
  
It's just that, as irritating as being in the middle proves to be, Lyra still can't see anything incredibly detrimental in her situation.  
  
The moment that Lyra finds a huge, gaping fault in the current arrangement between her and the twins' priorities, Lyra will take action.  
  
She's going to make sure of that.  
  
•  
  
The news is primarily received with astonished stares.  
  
Stella feels somehow cheated, because in her opinion, Lyra's purely physical relationship with Paul is even more out-of-the-blue, even more surprising. It's not like there's been zero lead-up to the news, or maybe the people working in ARCHADIA are all blindly ensconced in their ancient traditions, that's why they didn't pay any attention to the developments that don't follow their ancient guidebooks, or something. It's also somewhat irritating, because it appears that everybody finds the thought of her getting into a relationship with someone is so surprising, like she doesn't seem to have the capability of attracting another person.  
  
There have been plenty of hints all over the place. The past couple of months have been rife with instances of eyes meeting, stares catching, gazes lingering. The recent weeks have been filled with innocuous brushes of shoulders-wrists-fingers that come with walking too-close in a too-wide hallway.  
  
It's laughably pitiful that nobody has even suspected.  
  
Everybody must have been too wrapped up with noticing Lyra and her beau. It's almost frustrating, because Stella knows that she's ranked higher than Lyra, knows that she's stronger than Lyra, knows that she's better than Lyra.  
  
And it's not just with her comparison to Lyra that she is superior—even when it comes to their boyfriends, Stella's is still much better than Lyra's.  
  
Her noble paramour, Castor, is ranked fourth, while Lyra's boytoy is only fifth, a clear-cut answer to the measurement of strength.  
  
…  
  
…Stella sighs, squeezing her eyes shut as she leans against a metal wall, alone in a long hallway that is hidden away from anyone else's view. It's nothing short of ridiculous, she's keenly aware, to play around with matters of the heart just because she doesn't know what else to do with her thoughts that rise and fall alongside the different instances of seeing Lyra in Paul's arms. Leo has been spending more and more time with her, possibly because of an order from the top to stop her from doing things that can bring her mission success rate down. There's this much trouble—gossip travels lightning-fast, opportunistically feeding on the boredom that tick-tocks atop the employees' heads—and yet Lyra isn't even reacting to her announcement.  
  
It's a far cry from their interactions before. Lyra used to sense Stella's feelings before she herself could even recognize their presence.  
  
Used to.  
  
Used to.  
  
Used to.  
  
It's all in the past now, quickly being buried by the filed-away recollections of a human brain, rapidly being forgotten by the mechanical recordings of the security cameras.  
  
Stella agrees that the news of her relationship with Castor is something that deserves astonishment. She considers herself to have enough self-consciousness to detect any cow-eyes being directed at her person, considers herself to have enough self-awareness to distinguish an interaction that feels gentler and more precious than the rest. But she has failed to perceive any affection from Castor, until the moment when Castor cornered her between the e-library sections of 'Shadows' and 'Schadenfreude'.  
  
Her acceptance surprised herself—continues to surprise her even now. She considers Castor to be intelligent enough to notice that her feelings are mostly jumbled-up but are unfailingly directed towards one person who is not him. But Castor appears fine with the way her heart is dead-set on remaining devoted to a childhood friend who doesn't even trust her enough to keep the secret regarding her newfound lust. Castor even seems welcoming to the idea that he isn't the number one in his girlfriend's heart.  
  
Stella is fairly confident that she isn't blind to the real reason why Castor is so accommodating regarding her circumstances.  
  
She opens her eyes, gazes at the well-hidden eye of the security team's camera installed 60° from a normal person's eye-level. The machine returns her glare steadily, cold and unfeeling like the rest of the walls enclosing ARCHADIA from the rest of the world.  
  
…It's just her luck.  
  
Even here, even in something so completely unrelated with pilot rankings, even here, she remains second.  
  
The only thing that changed is that her partner is also second.  
  
•  
  
It happens quickly.  
  
Without leaving her a chance to gather her bearings, without granting her a pause to process her next course of action, without letting her gasp out a curse-laden complaint to her mission partners who are nowhere within range.  
  
She doesn't see it coming.  
  
…Even though in retrospect, she doesn't see a lot of things coming.  
  
In just a span of ten seconds, Lyra's world tumbles down from the wearied boredom that accompanies each routine perimeter check mission, tumbles down like a crown dislodged from a happy-go-lucky emperor, rolls down like tumbleweed falling from a slippery slope, sinks down into the reality of a dirty ambush launched by the strongest country in the world.  
  
She doesn't see it coming: the way the sand-and-coarse-soil explode into geysers of broken land, thanks to landmines that must have been painstakingly planted hours beforehand; the way her SPHERE refuses to budge even though she's placing her entire being into just pushing the controls, thanks to the interference nets that in theory shouldn't just affect her machine; the way her communication lines are filled with nothing but mass panic from the headquarters and chilling silence from her mission partners.  
  
Everything happens so quickly, mere seconds that are no doubt within the calculations of her opponent.  
  
The shattered visuals of her SPHERE's monitor explode into hundreds of glass fragments when the opposing SPHERE's many wheels easily shred the defensive points of her star. VEGA, despite being the third-strongest SPHERE produced out of ARCHADIA's factories, is no match against the fearsome chariot of Central Tower. It's a cruel match-up, but Lyra doesn't even have time to snarl a complaint about her horrible situation.  
  
She's almost thankful, in some corner of her mind, that the recording apparatus installed on RIGEL is most possibly destroyed. There's no need for others to see the way she shamefully lost without even launching any counterattack. There's no need for anyone else to hear the way Central Tower's 03 speaks out in a machine-translated voice that reeks of apathy.  
  
"Are you begging for forgiveness?" OPHAN, one of the most dangerous SPHEREs around, a distinction that it received mostly due to its pilot, tilts its head at her, gazing down at her injured form with nothing remotely passable for an empathic human emotion. "Or are you perhaps begging for your own life?"  
  
She can barely see the way OPHAN's arm reaches out to recover her from the ruins of RIGEL's cockpit. She can barely feel the way every movement from OPHAN crushes her legs even more, as the many wheels continue to grind down on the cable connections to VEGA's star-points.  
  
Lyra can barely even hear her own words amidst the persistent pounding of precious blood inside her temples, inside her eardrums, inside her mind.  
  
"P-P-P—" she can barely move her lips, but it's her final thoughts, the finale to the life of a teenage pilot in a world run by sly adults, "P-P-Paul, I, I—"  
  
OPHAN trembles so-very-slightly, the growl and hum of cables are the final sound she hears.  
  
Her communication lines remain open and free from any contact.  
  
Her mission partners, Paul and his twin, clearly abandoned her.  
  
Her final thought is nothing so grandiose and nothing so complicated.  
  
It's just that.  
  
Just that.  
  
Lyra thinks of Stella, alone in a country, without a family, without anyone to protect, without anyone to protect her from two monsters who think of nobody but their own circumstances.  
  
In the end, her downfall is because she is in the middle of two people she never should have gotten involved with beyond simple words.  
  
In the end, she can't even think of the words 'I'm sorry'.  
  
In the end, she is still in the middle.  
  
"P-P-Paul, you bastard, I'll, I'll kill you—"  
  
•  
  
Stella tries to think about her last conversation with her close friend, her best friend, her only friend. Her mind fails to supply her desperate inquiry with an answer different from a disappointing blank. There's a slight shuffling movement that she picks up with her peripheral vision, but she doesn't pay it any extra attention. She needs to concentrate, because it's the only thing that's left for her to accomplish. Their friendship might have cooled down during the past couple of months, though they remained in talking terms. That's why there has to be something that can qualify as a 'final conversation', something that can serve as Lyra's final words to her.  
  
Her stressed-out mind is constantly answering her with silence.  
  
Stella bites her lip, not minding the way her skin yields to her teeth after suffering from the same treatment for the past few hours, not concerned with the sudden burst of metallic flavor that invades her taste buds. The shuffling movement to her distant left restarts, but she continues to ignore the annoyance in favor of letting her mind run around in dizzying circles.  
  
She looks down on her black gloves that help mask the way her fingertips are completely chewed on, fingernails chipped and broken. The compressed air is cold but the atmosphere is made even colder with the thought that Lyra isn't alive anymore. Stella can't even pretend otherwise, because the reminder of Lyra's fate is everywhere: from the somber expressions of the people milling around, from the all-black ensemble that the employees wear to this funeral, from the non-stop announcements regarding the re-assessments of the pilots and the higher-ranked trainees so that the number 03 spot can be filled immediately.  
  
The year is 685. The month is October. The winds outside are as unforgiving as always, the enemies beyond their border are as bloodthirsty as usual, the sadness that suffocates her is as strong as it was yesterday when she first heard the terrible news.  
  
There really are monsters in this world. There are enemies, fellow teenage pilots that become her opponents because the entire world is at war. And then, there are monsters so bloodthirsty and so inhuman that calling them anything but 'monsters' is unacceptable.  
  
Stella has seen the amount of damage dealt to Lyra's body, barely held together by connective tissues and some remaining unbroken bones. VEGA is wrecked beyond repair as well, but given enough time, it can shine once more. The same thing isn't applicable to Lyra, because she's human, because she isn't a machine, because she isn't a monster.  
  
Unlike the legendary pilot of OPHAN, who is a demon personified. As if it isn't enough for Central Tower's 03 to be known as the Slayer that mercilessly slaughtered those who stood in his affiliation's way during the Herzog Kingdom's collapse, now it seems that OPHAN's pilot is aiming to imprint his name on the pages of history as the monster that damaged all its opponents beyond recognition.  
  
It's a match-up that wouldn't have ended in any result aside from Lyra's utter defeat, because Lyra is human, unlike her opponent.  
  
Stella stands up, her sudden movement drawing the attention of some of the people milling around with bowed-down heads. She declines the honor of being seated in front during the funeral, not only because she isn't quite sure she can stop at mere nail-biting and lip-chewing when she's forced to sit in such close proximity of her friend's broken body. Sitting way back grants her the advantage of being able to see everyone present, making it far easier to spot the ones disrespectful enough to skip on a fellow pilot's funeral rites.  
  
As expected, those two are not here.  
  
She balls her fists, not caring about the throb of pain that radiates from her bleeding fingers.  
  
"You should rest, Stella," Leo tells her sadly, along with other sets of movement from her distant left, but she takes two steps back before he can even think about reaching out to her with his hands that are devoid of blood and arms that are devoid of any goose bumps. "You should—"  
  
Stella swallows down the urge to scream, the need to retort about how Leo's number one rank doesn't give him the ability to know what one pilot should or shouldn't do. There's no point throwing her words to a person who wouldn't understand how she feels, so she turns on her heel, showing her disinterested back to Leo's irritating face.  
  
It doesn't take her more than a couple of minutes to reach her destination, just as it doesn't take her mind too long to process the scene displayed in front of her eyes. It's slightly regrettable, but she's long suspected that there's something off about Paul, and she's long understood that Castor's devotion to his brother is something too far-off from normal.  
  
…There are monsters like The Slayer who are just too overwhelmingly powerful to be anything remotely human. There are also monsters like that person from her Herzog Kingdom childhood, Ash Vlastvier, who is too synchronized with bloodlust to be considered anything aside from monstrous.  
  
And then there are monsters like the twins in front of her.  
  
Twins who whisper to each other's lips, whisper words that Stella can hear clearly from her hiding spot behind a not-entirely-closed door, whisper words that are soft and callous.  
  
"We should at least pay our respects," one of them says, their voices blending into a mess of ugliness and filth, finally shedding their masks that restrained their true natures from being exposed to the humans that believed them.  
  
"She might roll around her grave if she sees us there, don't you think?" The other twin replies with a hint of humor that Stella fails to see, because there's nothing funny about the fact that her only friend is dead.  
  
There's another reply and Stella almost tears off her entire lower lip with the snarl that she hopelessly suppresses. "She's too fucking damaged to move, much less roll around."  
  
"She's too fucking dead, you mean."  
  
Twins who apparently switch and mix personalities, melting off the friendly and playful mask of Paul, taking off the stoic but gentle mask of Castor, twins who apparently don't have any mercy, pity or respect for the dead.  
  
"Lucky her recording apparatus exploded to smithereens," one of the twins remark with a sigh, opening his legs a little wider so that his brother can settle on his lap more comfortably.  
  
Stella's bloodied fingers tremble, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she imagines different ways of extracting a full confession from these two pilots who allowed a fellow pilot's death and laughed about it afterwards. She refuses to lose sight of her priority, which is to punish them, but she must first establish the fact that they're the villains, the enemies, the monsters.  
  
"Well~ I don't mind silencing people~ In case someone discovers that we let that useless girl die, we'll have to take action~"  
  
"That's too much work, brother."  
  
…There really are monsters in this world.  
  
Stella swallows her conscience, her desperation, her fear, her guilt, her humanity.  
  
Stella kicks the half-closed door completely open, announcing her presence to the twins making out against the wide windows of their shared room, the artificial lighting installed both inside and outside the room helpless against the shadows that envelop the outside air and the darkness that intrudes from the long hallway. Her black gloves fall unceremoniously to the plush carpet, the scent of blood filling her nostrils as her bleeding fingers systematically stretch the compressed blade that was hidden alongside her chewed-on fingernails with help from said fallen gloves.  
  
For Lyra's sake, she's willing to become a monster.  
  
First, she has to get rid of these two murderers, because they abandoned Lyra to perform the mission that snatched her life away. She'll be doing the world a favor, because ARCHADIA surely doesn't need filthy bastards like these two. Afterwards, she is going to retrieve clearance from the higher-ups to go after Crew and his OPHAN.  
  
Attacking first, Stella doesn't waste time trying to listen to the twins' mocking words.  
  
…There really are countless monsters in this world.  
  
And she's willing to change, because her feelings for her friend are second to none.  
  
With her sadness suffocating her to the point that her humanity has already drowned and died, Stella goes on to become a monster.  
  
•

 **END of sixth rotation;**  
_the birth of a monster_.  
  
•••


	7. turn 07: seventh supremacy

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 07: seventh supremacy_  
  
(—schadenfreude—)  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot_. Oliver Payne  
 _sphere_. None / In Probation  
 _rank._ Grand Romania – pilot trainee   
  
•  
  
Despite his unfortunate familiarity with the action, he still finds it undesirably tiring to be on his hands and knees, the strong cleaning liquid steadily corroding the cheap fabric of his pants, the pungent smell tickling his nose and making his eyes well up with unmanly tears. While there are cleaner robots available for these types of stubborn dirt on the dim hallways, the sneering pilot trainees circling his prone form are blocking his figure from being detected by the roaming cameras that are programmed to take snapshots of situations that don't fall in the list of events that are classified as 'normal'. Not that he has harbored delusions of escaping from the so-called 'divine punishment' issued by his fellow trainees who are far from divinity.  
  
Once upon a time, he spent a considerable amount of time pondering about the existence of a signboard tacked onto his back, a signboard that invited people to take turns in bullying him with methods that ranged from plain pathetic ("Dance in front of another training class, naked!") to severe sadism ("Oopsie, it seems that your oxygen tank is in our hands! How about you evacuate all our things first before you think about getting a breath of air? Who knows, maybe you'll finally drop dead in the process!").  
  
…Once upon a time.  
  
Now nearly fifteen years old, Oliver is already more than aware that examining his life using the confines of sound logic is useless.  
  
Not that his realization of his place in the hierarchy of society is able to stop him from entertaining thoughts, every once in a while, of how much he desires superiority.   
  
It's hard not to crave supremacy in a world that's filled with chaos and despair from every corner, every pore. He has known nothing but inferiority ever since his birth, so he can't deny the desire to be the one reigning over others, if only just once.  
  
As a means of ignoring the jeers and taunts his fellow trainees hurl at him, Oliver allows his mind to drift to his past.   
  
His name, Oliver Payne, used to signify something important. Or rather, it was the surname that his father passed onto him, the surname that labeled him as part of a political dynasty from Herzog Kingdom. But there's nothing completely set in stone in this world and it didn't take too long for the Herzog Kingdom to ask the Payne family to send some children who could fulfill the role of 'political hostages' to other countries. As if it wasn't enough to pluck him from the only place where his name, his being, actually meant something—Oliver was sent to Grand Romania. That would have been fine, but there was the knowledge that his older sister, his wonderful, better sister, was sent to the Freedom Union. Apparently Jade deserved being sent to the better, stronger country because she was better and stronger. And consequently, Oliver was the one sent to the weaker, more unstable country.  
  
…Oliver frowns, blinking. He repeats the action, blinking furiously, when he realizes that his eyes are welling up with too much tears. There's no way he can wipe those tears away with bleach-covered gloveless hands; there's no way he can stop the salty liquid from spilling out of his eyes. He berates himself for even considering that it's a passable idea to start thinking about his past that is filled with even more bullying and regrets, especially while he's in front of a crowd who seems hell-bent on drawing a tearful breakdown out of him.  
  
Once again, despite his unfortunate familiarity with the intricacies and workings of being the world's most favorite bullying target, it seems that he still has a long way to go before he can accept the punishment without getting the tiniest urge to fight back or to start a protest. Oliver thinks that his situation used to be manageable before, when the only ones who despised him were the senior trainees, people who weren't all that important in the grand scheme of things.   
  
Ever since he had the misfortune of meeting the much-revered and much-feared 01 pilot of Grand Romania though—  
  
—Now that he thinks about it, isn't it a misfortune indeed?   
  
The Main Assembly Hall is the largest gathering place inside Grand Romania's infrastructures, as long as one doesn't count the launch hangars that house the SPHEREs that aren't out on missions. Such a huge space, with thousands of people, and still…  
  
Oliver is hardly a newbie to Grand Romania and its pilot system, that's why he doesn't bother listening intently to the announcements, doesn't bother paying attention to the naïvely optimistic speeches of the old farts onstage, doesn't bother securing a seat near the front so he can catch a glimpse of the Grand Romania's Very Important People. Oliver opts to stay at the far back, far away from the commotion, far away from the sight of the officials who will undoubtedly recognize him for his value as a pawn discarded by his own family and his country, far away from the disgusted sneers of the bullies who will complain about his shabby appearance and sweaty smell even though they were the ones who were responsible for his unpleasant state.  
  
And that's probably one of the biggest mistakes of his life.  
  
Contrary to his expectations, the most important person in Grand Romania's story of worldwide conquest doesn't enter the Assembly Hall flanked by security guards, doesn't enter with any fanfare, doesn't even enter using the doors designated for the high-ranking officials. The doors located mere centimeters to the left of his bruised left arm opens with a low hiss of metal against carpeted marble, and Oliver stupidly, instinctively whips his head (…previously busy with morosely counting the number of women who showed up in too-tight clothes and too-short skirts, in misguided hopes of catching the eyes of the pilots perhaps) to acknowledge the latecomer. Foolishly continues to stare at Ash Vlastvier, unmistakable in his custom all-black pilot uniform that has earned whispers of a 'death god', undeniable in his powerful aura even though he's just one person in this dizzyingly huge hall.  
  
It's hardly the first time Oliver sees Ash Vlastvier's face: a face that's familiar to every single Grand Romania citizen, a face that's hated by countless corpses and ghosts and families said deaths have left behind, a face that's known by every single military organization and every SPHERE pilot in the world. It's hardly the first time, yet Oliver fails to pull his gaze away nevertheless. And because Ash Vlastvier is the ranked one pilot, because he is unmistakably strong and definitely not oblivious, he easily notices the speechless gaping from the filthy trainee not even a meter away.  
  
"I didn't think anybody is stupid enough to let himself be bullied," Ash Vlastvier's voice is surprisingly smooth, sweet even, and Oliver even forgets to feel a spark of irritation at being called stupid, because the idol of aspiring pilots is talking to him in a low voice far from his usual hoarse tone, "but I guess I shouldn't underestimate stupidity."  
  
"They're my seniors," Oliver retorts and he doesn't even know why he replies instead of silently accepting whatever is thrown at him. He almost gasps and almost apologizes for speaking in such a familiar manner to the most powerful man in the country that isn't his own, but Ash Vlastvier's eyes already narrow just the slightest bit. Oliver surrenders to the urge to hide his bruised arm behind his back, away from further scrutiny.  
  
Ash Vlastvier takes a step forward, bridging the already-short distance between them. Tips of heavy boots bump against the worn-out tips of Oliver's mere military-issued trainee shoes. Ash Vlastvier leans against him, voice still maintaining its smooth baritone. "Then you're even stupider than I thought."  
  
Oliver is busy being flustered, that's why he doesn't even have time to foresee Ash Vlastvier's right fist embedding itself on his stomach, hitting a spot that forces him down on his knees, puking his stomach's contents out, a public humiliation for the entire Assembly Hall to witness.  
  
"You should be fine with that, right?" Ash stands in front of him, above him in so many levels, his smooth voice melting away to give room to his well-known hoarse and uncaring tone. The eyes looking down at Oliver's battered figure don't even see a human being, and that's one of the perks that come along with reigning supreme. "After all, I'm your senior too."  
  
And that's the beginning of Oliver's even bigger misfortune.—  
  
"If someone as filthy as you is scrubbing the floors, you will just make things worse."  
  
Oliver slips a bit, places a little more force into his hands that use rags to spread the cleaning liquid evenly. There's no need for him to look up in order to recognize the person who barges into his punishment, breaking the circle of senior trainees jeering at him. The cacophony of noise quiets down unnaturally, words die out inside the trainees' throats, sadistic ideas to make Oliver's penalty more entertaining end abruptly.  
  
Without waiting for anyone else to move or speak up, Ash Vlastvier goes on with whatever he's thinking, uncaring whether his actions and ideals hurt others. Oliver almost sees it coming, primarily because the same routine has been playing over and over again since the moment that he crossed paths with Ash Vlastvier. Oliver almost sees it coming and he still can't do anything to stifle the groan of pain that drips out of his mouth as a steel-toed boot connects with his chest, the hard movement sending shockwaves to his diaphragm and lungs.  
  
Blood trickles down from his lips into the makeshift rags held by his gloveless hands, mixing with the cleaning liquid and dirtying the floor he's been attempting to clean. He coughs up more blood as he attempts to catch his breath, as he makes a futile effort to regulate his labored breathing and his erratic heartbeat. Ash Vlastvier only grants him twenty seconds to gather his wits before letting his steel-lined boot establish contact against his left torso.   
  
Oliver's vision blurs with more unshed tears, the pain exploding and overwhelming his senses. He feels his stomach acid bubbling and spilling back out of his esophagus, and he tries to force down the urge to vomit his lunch. Dimly, he wonders if his fellow trainees are still around, whether they enjoy witnessing a low-class trainee like him get literally stomped on by the highest-ranked pilot in a blatant display of power and supremacy. His senses are focused on the pain dancing on his sides and on his chest, so he barely notices Ash Vlastvier pulling his head back by the ends of his brown hair, just as he doesn't even realize that his tormentor is standing behind him, feet planted on either side of his defeated body.  
  
The stinging of his scalp brings his pained tears out of their hiding place, and the absence of catcalls and mockeries that come with his tears is enough to inform him that his fellow trainees have fled the scene, undoubtedly because the pool of blood around his prone form indicates that there's a very good chance that Ash Vlastvier will end up killing him, possibly because the display of Ash Vlastvier's monstrous violence effectively instills terror.   
  
"If you keep on touching someone as filthy as me, you'll end up being filthy too, Mr. Ash Vlastvier." How Oliver manages to recite that line without stuttering or breaking down into a coughing mess, he doesn't know.   
  
Ash Vlastvier's reply to his words is brief and painful: letting go of his hair, one steel-lined boot then descends on the back of his head, forcing his face to be acquainted with the floor slick with his own blood and pungent with the cleaning liquid. Oliver faintly hopes that none of the cleaning liquid makes its way to his squeezed-shut eyes; wounds close and fractures heal, but medical advancements haven't yet reached a level where sight restoration or eyeball implantation is feasible.   
  
Oliver then wishes that Ash Vlastvier doesn't get any other ideas on how to make this 'bully session' more sadistically interesting. He didn't even wrong Ash Vlastvier in any way and the other is already treating him like this. Ash Vlastvier is already frightening and monstrous enough—a perfect example of a person who can't be considered human. Oliver thinks that it wouldn't surprise him if nobody would even care if Ash Vlastvier just simply dropped dead, ridding the world of his presence.  
  
…Of course, Oliver is acutely aware that Ash Vlastvier is immensely important to Grand Romania, more specifically, Grand Romania's plans for military improvement and subsequent world domination. But as he continues to suffer and groan underneath the merciless kicks Ash Vlastvier so generously doles out, Oliver thinks that he is entitled to delude himself into thinking that he's not the only one who wishes for Ash Vlastvier to disappear from this world.  
  
•  
  
"—to uphold dignity and honor of our Name and our Country—"  
  
Hiding behind a row of tall computer systems is hardly a dignified and honorable action, but Oliver doesn't really place any value in the flavorful words that make up the so-called Family Pledge of the Herzog Kingdom's major political families. That's just fine, since Herzog Kingdom is nothing but an obsolete name of a country that doesn't exist anymore, and Oliver too is like his original country, forgotten and useless in the grand scheme of things.  
  
He continues reciting the pledge, though not for reasons related to his loyalty to his country or to his nostalgia regarding his previous way of life. He enunciates the syllables clearly though softly, so that the voice recording program opened on his desktop can still capture each and every word correctly, while he remains unnoticed by the other occupants of the room.   
  
Oliver has always been a meek student, because lesson time serves as his only reprieve from the constant bullying, since his bullies take the training modules rather seriously. Oliver is more than satisfied for things to remain that way, that's why he goes out of his way to avoid attracting any attention to his person during lessons; one way to ensure that is for him to stay absolutely quiet and unnoticeable.   
  
He has always been the quiet little student hunched back at the back, but today, he has an additional motivation for remaining under the radar. Said motivation is situated in front of his fellow classmates, possibly scowling down at the trainees who aspire to reach his level. Oliver understands little regarding Ash's appeal to the masses, since there's nothing admirable about a person who is talented when it comes to destroying other people's lives.   
  
…In any case, his personal feelings regarding Ash and his popularity aside, Oliver isn't looking forward to getting singled out and getting humiliated in front of his trainees who already think of him as something beneath the dirt stuck in-between minute cracks in the flooring.   
  
Oliver controls the strength at the tips of his fingers so he doesn't make any noise while typing sets of string commands on the voice recording program's interface. It's a project that's way advanced compared to the scope of lessons they're discussing in their classes, but Oliver supposes that having zero friends and accumulating too much time in the infirmary are both very conducive to giving him ample time to fiddle around with his personal computer. It's almost pathetic how Grand Romania doesn't give much weight to the intelligence tests compared to assays that measure trainees' physical capabilities. Not that Oliver is a particularly intelligent person—but even he is painfully aware that his mind is more refined than his muscles.  
  
"Everyone already thinks you're a useless worm," Ash Vlastvier is suddenly by his side, easily breaching the feeble defense that Oliver set up around him, "and you don't even try to change their opinion. That makes you a masochist, no?"   
  
"My apologies for any class interruptions…" Oliver trails off, as he lets his fingers go limp atop the keyboard, eyes registering the deep scowl and irritated draw of shoulders on Ash's face, easily understanding the reason for the pilot's obvious annoyance. "…sir."  
  
"—I'd really appreciate it if all of you pay attention to my demonstration," a different voice cuts into their confrontation at the far end of the classroom, and Oliver recognizes the speaker to be the 02 pilot, Davy Black.   
  
With hair as black as the most precious obsidian stones, with eyes as green as the earth's legendary emerald gemstones, with a prestigious name that establishes him as a member of Grand Romania's royal family, Davy Black is on a whole other league. It's almost unfair how Ash Vlastvier still garners more respect and awe, but that can be attributed to the mindset of Grand Romania citizens who regards the truly strong above all else. There are unpleasant rumors about how Davy Black is simply playing around with the SPHERE pilot system, as he has nothing else to do while he waits behind the line of people supposed to ascend to the throne. No matter Davy Black's reason for joining the chosen ones, the results he consistently puts forth once he's inside his SPHERE are undoubtedly real. Despite not taking the trainings and placement tests seriously, Davy Black remains much stronger than Oliver, a status quo that he can't even hope to break.  
  
It's such a shame that Davy Black doesn't even attempt to mask his displeasure at being stuck inside a training room that he has left behind eons ago, at being stuck mentoring trainees who can't even last five seconds in a fight against him.  
  
…Nevertheless, Oliver doesn't fault Davy Black for feeling displeased with his current responsibility. Oliver just hopes that the 02 pilot doesn't start asking the trainees to come forward and present their test results and the results of their one-on-one coaching with a specialized synchronization instructor. It's a well-established fact that Oliver constantly scores the lowest when it comes to synchronization and sparring, or any physical activity really, just as it's a deep-seated rumor that Oliver only remains in the pilot training program because Grand Romania doesn't have any other open slots for a political hostage like him.  
  
"I'll teach this brat," Ash Vlastvier replies to Davy Black's unsubtle request for the room's occupants to keep their eyes focused on the board where he's about to discuss different physical measurement stats and how those meaningless numbers gain significance and how can those values grow with the correct set of training. "You don't mind that, do you?"  
  
"…Actually, I do mind that, Vlastvier."  
  
"Well, how much do you think I care about your rich-boy feelings?"  
  
Oliver chances a glance at Ash's face, devoid of any apprehension at the consequences of openly challenging a member of Grand Romania's royal line. It is equal parts amazing and horrifying to find someone who hails from the destroyed Herzog Kingdom act as though he owns the entire world. It's the exclusive right of someone who stands above the rest: to remain unchallenged and secure in his position even if the things he does deserve rebuke.   
  
Davy Black's eyes narrow, as though in warning and Oliver half-wishes for a fight to break out between the two top-rank pilots, since an amazing distraction will effectively grab the attention of everyone around, which will surely lead to him being left alone to his devices for the duration of the period. It's just a half-wish because Oliver is unfortunately aware of how much property damage goes hand-in-hand with Ash Vlastvier getting involved in a fight, no matter how petty and small said fight is. Oliver doesn't care for the building getting caught between the two pilots' fight, but he does care about the computers in this training room, computers that have top-notch programs that he enjoys tinkering with.  
  
…But then again, he's getting ahead of himself.   
  
Davy Black stays in the designated area for the student-teachers, though he does fold his hands across his chest in a defensive and very irritated gesture. "Whether you care for my, as you put it, 'rich-boy feelings' or not is irrelevant. I just need you to do the damn job that our bosses gave us. Please, kindly."  
  
Ash Vlastvier takes in a deep breath. Oliver begins to fear that the 01 pilot is preparing for a deep, scary, monstrous laugh; he begins to hastily save and copy the data he's working on in his workstation so that he can run away at the slightest provocation.   
  
…Yet again, he's getting ahead of himself, because Ash Vlastvier simply spits out his next words in absolute disdain, tone booking no room for arguments or counterattacks from his fellow student-trainer for this class.   
  
"I am your boss, aren't I?"  
  
Ash Vlastvier glares pointedly at Oliver's work computer next, and Oliver swallows back the sigh that's threatening to spill out of his lips. There's no point trying to argue with the 01 now—not that there's ever been a circumstance when it had been a wise idea to question Ash's orders, whether they be verbal or not.  
  
"And I'm telling you to stop interfering with me."  
  
Despite the considerable distance separating Oliver from Davy Black, Oliver witnesses and comprehends each emotion that dance around the other's face: from the instinctive jolt of fear, followed by the immediate denial of weakness, then a burst of indignation, and finally descending to resignation. They are familiar emotions that Oliver used to see in front of a mirror. Oliver instantly understands that even a high-ranking pilot with a royal blood is inferior to Ash Vlastvier as well, because there can only be one truly supreme being. He tells himself that he feels an odd sense of camaraderie, a connection that links someone as useless as him to someone as great as Davy Black—they're all inferior beings, no matter how strong Davy Black is, he isn't strong enough and Oliver isn't alone in the suffocating oppression he's suffering from.  
  
The strangely exhilarating feeling of having someone experience a similar suffering soon fades out though, for Oliver finds his left arm grasped with bruising strength, the grip hauling him off his swivel chair and out of the classroom. No snickers follow his unceremonious exit, but that can easily be attributed to the fact that Ash Vlastvier's eyes are probably flashing green like the prisms they add on a SPHERE's eyes. Either that or his fellow trainees are silenced by the murderous vibes radiating from Davy Black, no thanks to his humiliation in front of a mere pilot training group.  
  
…In any case, Oliver aborts any train of thought that leads back to the trainees who bully him mercilessly, because his life is in grave danger at the moment, and the grip on his left arm remains steadfast. He instead focuses his thoughts on weighing the pros and cons of venturing to ask Ash Vlastvier about his stress levels; ever since the start of the year, Ash Vlastvier's 'visits' to Oliver has been steadily growing more frequent. Oliver has enough sense in him to discern that the cause of the increasingly frequent bullying sessions isn't something like Ash Vlastvier missing his company. It's almost definitely related to some stressor in Ash Vlastvier's life.  
  
Oliver has no interest in learning to care for Ash Vlastvier's life, no matter how superficially. It's already too much that their pilot training notes include completely useless tidbits about how Ash Vlastvier's routine as a SPHERE pilot goes. Though there might be an advantage in helping uprooting the thorn in the pilot's life—if Oliver manages to help Ash Vlastvier out, the pilot might start decreasing his 'visits', which translate to fewer trips to the infirmary, where his other set of tormentors love to ambush him before he even obtains medical treatment.  
  
His train of thought splits and derails into countless railroads running around in circles once Ash Vlastvier leads him to an empty training room and shoves him in front of a computer that has better specs than the one in his usual classroom. Oliver almost allows himself to forget that he's trapped in a classroom with his most dangerous tormentor and nobody can probably discover his corpse before it completely rots, if Ash Vlastvier grows inclined to dispose of him.   
  
Concepts of personal safety flee his mind as soon as he logs in to the computer, an advanced operating system greeting his eyes and touch-hypersensitive keyboards welcoming his fingers. Before his mind catches up to his excited typing, he already opens ten programs simultaneously, the programs' interfaces seamlessly opening without any lag. Oliver dimly thinks that drool is starting to pool inside his mouth, but he can't seem to control his body, can't seem to stop the face-splitting grin that he knows he's sporting at the moment.  
  
"This is amazing," Oliver breathes out in awe, and he almost forgets that the person beside him is Ash Vlastvier, almost lets words of gratitude spill out of his mouth.  
  
"It is," Ash Vlastvier echoes numbly, zero conviction in his words, apathy towards such an amazing piece of technological advancement incredibly apparent.  
  
His tormentor's voice sobers Oliver up, unnecessarily reminds him that Ash Vlastvier is dangerous, needlessly tells him that there's no way this visit to a higher-tiered classroom doesn't have an exorbitant price attached to it.  
  
"…Why did you bring me here?"  
  
"Your test scores when it comes to SPHERE synchronization is on par with a toddler's, possibly even less." Ash Vlastvier rattles off the specific stats and metrics that the pilot training engineers measure, easily demonstrating the fact that their experiences when it comes to successfully piloting a SPHERE can't even be compared. "Physical strength tests show that you can win a fight against a one-legged and one-armed seventy-three-year-old woman. Either that or against a two year old brat who hasn't received any initial motor coordination training. Ha, at least they're considerate enough to give you options, no?"  
  
Oliver's cheeks don't even flush red with embarrassment or shame, because those are truths that he's already familiar with, because those are facts that he has already internalized and accepted. He has zero talent when it comes to any physical exertion and his test results attest to that. Despite growing up in a harsher environment due to all the bullying he received, he regretfully didn't grow stronger from his experiences that keep on failing to completely end his pathetic life.  
  
"The training engineers' initial assessment told me that I can't even win against a newborn, so I supposed I have already improved."  
  
Ash Vlastvier lets out a tiny noise that suspiciously sounds like an amused snort, but Oliver doesn't believe in impossibilities like that turning into reality.  
  
"However," Ash Vlastvier continues as though Oliver didn't say anything, "your results for intelligence tests and theory-based exams are the highest in Grand Romania's history."  
  
Oliver's face doesn't even blush pink with pride or happiness from getting acknowledged, because he has long been aware that strengths that don't translate into physical results are strengths that might as well be absent. Anyone can sit down in a place hidden from anyone's view and become absorbed with whatever book he's reading or whichever project he's doing. Anyone can keep quiet and absorb the information floating around him and remember them for future use. Anyone can have test results as good as his, but a high-number intellect is useless in a world controlled by unexplained weather changes and incomprehensible robots that can level mountains with a simple push of a button.  
  
"My theory results can't strengthen my bones, just as my IQ results can't take me away from my fellow trainees and into the actual mission briefing rooms." There's nothing in his voice that betrays the regret and dissatisfaction that he doesn't feel at the moment. Oliver straightens his back, waits for the blond pilot beside him to backhand him for answering back or for doing the simple act of existing in this world.  
  
The physical retaliation doesn't come. Instead, Ash Vlastvier's right hand drags Oliver off the chair (again) by his still-sore left arm (again). Ash Vlastvier leans in, whispers in a wicked tone: "Your theory-based exam results are the best in the country, but they're not perfect." There's a short pause and Oliver's thoughts don't even have a chance to recover. "There's no room for mediocrity."  
  
"…There shouldn't be."  
  
Apparently satisfied with his response, Ash Vlastvier lets him go, even allows him to nurse his bruised left arm.  
  
"Take this test," seemingly out of nowhere, Ash Vlastvier throws a set of thick folders to his direction, "and if you get a perfect score, I'll give you one hour of unsupervised computer use."  
  
Oliver doesn't even suspect the truth behind his tormentor's statement. There's nothing that Ash Vlastvier cannot do: that's a mantra that every Grand Romania official rely on, that's a truth that Grand Romania citizens place faith in, that's a chant that every aspiring trainee believes in. Granting a filthy trainee unsupervised computer time with the country's best equipment is something that Ash Vlastvier can definitely do, there's no question about that.  
  
But like his earlier suspicion, there's a catch.  
  
"And for each mistake, I'll make sure to punish you extremely thoroughly."  
  
…Oh.  
  
That's it?  
  
Oliver thinks that he can definitely handle that. Physical punishments are part of his everyday life anyway.  
  
Ash Vlastvier must have seen the confidence on his face, or maybe there's a slight curve to his lips, because the next thing he knows, Ash Vlastvier's gloved fingers are squeezing, tilting his chin up, uncomfortably dragging him upwards.  
  
"On second thought, maybe that's not punishment enough." No malevolent mischief appears in the green eyes looming so close to him. "…Maybe I should give you a kiss for each wrong answer you have?"  
  
…A kiss?  
  
Isn't that—?  
  
"…Ha, as if I'd go through with such a disgusting action just for punishment."  
  
Oliver almost retorts that there's no point reciting suggestions that will just get rejected immediately. Almost. Oliver also almost agrees with the sentiment that kissing someone is a disgusting action. Almost.   
  
Ash Vlastvier lets him go again, makes a vague hand motion towards the thick folders parked near the computer station he gravitated towards. Shockingly, conversationally, Ash murmurs into the compressed air separating the two of them: "In my home country, each time my birthday comes around, there's a custom for a demonstration on how to poison an enemy with a kiss."  
  
…Birthday?  
  
Ah, so even monsters like Ash Vlastvier celebrate ordinary things like birthdays too?  
  
…Wait.  
  
…Home country—? Ash Vlastvier is—!  
  
"I'm also from Herzog Kingdom but I haven't heard of—"  
  
There's a rough press of something that feels like knife-sharp icicles against his lips.  
  
…Isn't this a kiss?  
  
Oliver takes a hasty step back, the forceful action causing him to accidentally step on the wheels of his swivel chair, consequently causing him to crash to the floor, back-first. Oliver manages to reign in his instinctive urge to flail his arms around to grab anything that can break his fall, because his surroundings are too precious and expensive to be touched by his helpless, dirty hands. Oliver then touches his lips with a trembling finger, dismay settling in his stomach when he feels and smells the thick liquid he finds.  
  
Blood.  
  
Ash Vlastvier is smirking at him, nonchalantly sitting on his own swivel chair. "…Of course that's just a lie, idiot."  
  
Oliver licks his lips and coughs almost immediately after, the taste of his own blood somehow more unbearable today after it has been chilled by his tormentor's kiss.  
  
"I can poison you on any other days too."  
  
…And as though his brain is disconnected from the rest of his body, Oliver can only think of one thing while his body busies itself with spasms running up and down his arms and legs, with coughs that wrack his body from head to toe.  
  
It's him, who doesn't harbor any interest in learning more about Ash Vlastvier, who now knows a personal detail not divulged in training manuals and mission reports.   
  
Today is the birthday of the monster that constantly torments not only Oliver but also countless others.  
  
Oliver tastes the blood in his lips and thinks that such a disgusting kiss is an effective poison indeed.  
  
•  
  
The month of March signifies the end of the yearly training term and everyone awaits the verdict of the higher-ups with a bated breath. There has never been a time when the results are accepted by everyone wholeheartedly, because there are always discrepancies and decisions that trainees find objections to.  
  
Oliver hasn't even attempted to hope that this year's results will be different from the previous years.  
  
…But then again, Grand Romania is consistently stomping down on his expectations, because this year, the decision is something that Oliver can't imagine happening even in his most irrational delusions.  
  
If it was anyone else, the rest of the class will be bursting with excitement and congratulatory greetings.  
  
The silence that follows the announcement is uncomfortable at the very least. Oliver knows that his fellow trainees are waiting for their shell-shocked trainer to suddenly inform them that it's just one distasteful joke. But there's nothing else that follows the announcement that shocks even the pilot training engineer handling their class.  
  
If it was anyone else, surely the rest of the class will be overjoyed to know that their entire class is crossing the threshold to getting the promotion to the next level of training. However, the entire class being promoted means that even Oliver is finally attaining the clearance for him to start on the next level, after getting stuck in this current training plan for years.  
  
…It means that the no-good Oliver everyone longed to leave behind is going to spend the next year with all of them.  
  
Oliver understands that feeling of overwhelming disappointment, that's why he doesn't even utter a groan of protest after getting shoved into the specialized metal lockers that release bursts of electricity once the biometrics system fail to recognize the nearest person's prints. He understands it all too well, which is why he simply accepts the words of the revered pilot that walks in on his daily bullying fanfare.  
  
"I cannot comprehend the reasoning behind you moving up the training ranks," Davy Black intones in a dreadfully nonchalant voice, "when you have absolutely no chance of getting promoted to pilot level anyway."  
  
Oliver understands that those who are better and stronger than him feel threatened by the way the system is showing incongruities and making awful decisions that don't follow the long-established doctrine of true power only getting awarded to those who deserve it. And because even Oliver himself cannot comprehend the reasoning behind his sudden advancement to the level directly below being assistant pilots, he allows Davy Black to peruse his strength and stamina with an on-the-spot physical examination.  
  
If it was anyone else—  
  
Oliver keeps his mind carefully blank as he welcomes his punishment with open arms.  
  
•  
  
As though to compensate for an entire month of not having a special guide to his personal hell, Oliver finds himself trapped in a slightly-malformed circle of a decidedly angry-looking mob, right after he completes his submission of required papers before he can start his lessons as a Tier 4 trainee next week. It's a set-up he's highly familiar with, but amount of people involved today still manages to catch him off-guard. He recognizes most of them: trainees who are in the same recently-promoted class as him, and trainees who used to be his classmates and are now in Tier 9. There are some unfamiliar faces, though they're probably trainees from the levels below his, who want to protest his advancement with the sound of their fists.  
  
"Even Mr. Davy Black thinks that you're a worthless piece of shit," one of the noisier bullies spits out his words along with a targeted spit of saliva to his face. Oliver keeps his head down because he might get the urge to correct his bully; while he has no qualms in accepting that Davy Black regards him a useless piece of shit, there's also no doubt that the prim and proper Davy Black will not say those words outright.  
  
"You deserve to die, you bastard!"  
"You're just wasting the time and resources of our country!"  
"A pathetic foreigner like you doesn't deserve to live here!"  
  
Syllables, words and sentences melt together and form a cacophony of screeching sounds that mean nothing to Oliver's ears. The circular formation of his bullies effectively blocks the roaming security cameras from detecting and recording the ongoing lynching. Alone in a crowd made entirely of his enemies, Oliver is helpless to escape his fate.  
  
…Not that he's particularly keen on the idea of slipping through the grasp of his fellow trainees. Not only does he lack any form of allies and friends that can assist him in hiding from his pursuers, Oliver also lacks the strength to continue defending himself against people who have every right to be furious with him.   
  
Oliver mentally winces when one of his older tormentors brandish an ancient-looking metal mace, its tip decorated by scattered blooms of rust. That's bound to hurt, possibly even break a bone or four. It will probably take more than three months to completely heal from the beating he's about to receive. Foreboding feelings regarding the amount of physical pain aside, Oliver is somewhat looking forward to getting confined in the infirmary for quite some time. Sure, it will make him laughably easy to track down, but ever since he has learned about the heavier and busier schedule for the Tier 4 classes, he has already started worrying about the diminished amount of time he can dedicate to his personal pursuits. And if he's bound to the infirmary bed, he will be rendered unable to attend his training classes, which means his irate classmates will not see his face and will not be reminded by the higher-ups' ridiculous verdict. It's the ideal situation that will bring everyone satisfaction, so Oliver doesn't mind suffering a few broken bones and a few torn muscles in exchange of attaining that situation.  
  
"Just as expected of a Herzog garbage, you're truly pathetic!"  
"Why don't you just do us all a favor and die?!"  
"You're taking up a precious trainee spot that could have been occupied by someone better!"  
  
Oliver agrees with their sentiments, one hundred percent, though he's careful not to mention his agreement out loud, because that might just unnecessarily bring his tormentors' emotions to the edge. The crazed look boiling in their eyes and the high-strung tension lining their arms are clear indications of their heightened distress; the air is saturated with almost-palpable danger, and Oliver hazily thinks that he'd like his eyes and his typing hand to remain relatively unharmed.  
  
Whatever thoughts he's having gets thrown into a collusion of chaos and corruption of human morality, as he drowns in the terrifying howls for justice and shrieks for his death that just wouldn't come. The metal mace he noticed earlier is now swinging down at him—once, twice, thrice—all the while following a rhythm of a broken pendulum.   
  
If he's more scientifically-inclined, maybe he can summon interest at the aspect of observing his nerve endings and his pain receptors, since the unending assault of agony seems to anesthetize his mind. If he closes his eyes, he can probably successfully deceive himself into thinking that he's just passed out in the military dormitory's battered, solid couch, instead of getting his bones broken into segments.   
  
…He's a coward, when all has been said and done, so he doesn't quite dare to close his eyes to the reality playing out in front of him, doesn't quite dare to attempt anything that might make his tormentors even angrier than they already are.   
  
His fellow trainees systematically take their turns into hitting him with their weapon of choice, but as this bullying session lengthens, the order they abide to starts to crumble. Oliver doesn't fault them for surrendering to their baser instincts, because humanity has survived for so long, has succeeded to live in deteriorating conditions, because humans learn to follow their survival instinct. It's somewhat poetic that his fellow classmates are promoted to Tier at the same time they graduate from the childish, almost-naïve bullying they've been indulging in for the past few years. There's a strange glimmer of pride in his mind, since his classmates finally manages to break free of the soft-hearted confines of good-naturedness and are instead attacking him with a very maddening intent to kill.  
  
Oliver recalculates the amount of time he'll spend confined to the hospital, since he now has to take into account that attacks made with solid conviction bring about more effective damages. A sickening crack to his right catches his attention; almost belatedly, he realizes with little wonder that his right leg is broken at his calf. Pain signals haven't traveled up to his brain yet, but he's expecting another explosion of neural signals, perhaps enough to send him fainting from the sensory overload. His tormentors don't even pause in their animalistic way of surrounding their prey and attacking him with very little precaution against getting caught harming a fellow human being.  
  
It's almost amazing, how humans easily succumb to their beast-like tendencies once they're overcome with emotion.  
  
Oliver offhandedly thinks that it's maybe the reason behind Ash Vlastvier's strength; Ash Vlastvier is able to draw beast-like power that completely ignores human logic and common sense, even while he's completely level-headed. It's almost amazing, how humans easily transform into monsters if it's for something as petty as feelings and wants.  
  
The rust-tipped mace swings down again and catches him by his left cheek, the pendulum of punishment bringing him down to the floor in one strike. His forehead bangs against the synthetic bulletproof glass floors, the impact's wave ricocheting inside his skull. Something pointed—an ordinary kitchen knife, maybe—pierces his back shallowly—an ordinary, unsharpened kitchen knife, most likely—and Oliver thinks he gasps with the motion. And almost as though that first cut is a sign, multitudes of knives and blades enter his body through his back, breaking his skin and spilling his blood. Oliver is inclined to believe that he still won't die from such shallow wounds, but he doesn't voice those thoughts, because his bullies might read that as an invitation to stab him directly on his heart.  
  
It's quite difficult to live but it's far more difficult to die, Oliver thinks.  
  
But then the rusted mace makes its way back to his much-injured form, and this time, it hits him at the back of his head, making sure that his thoughts fall to a limbo of nauseating nothingness.  
  
•  
  
Oliver wakes up reeling from a strange contradiction of heavy limbs and light thoughts. He looks around the very familiar enclosed space of what is almost certainly the infirmary, his stare wavering at the sight of his condition displayed for everyone to see in the status machine beeping in front of him. His gaze drops down to his waist and sees nothing but thick, white bandages; his hands and legs seem as though they weigh five-hundred kilograms, an impossible mass, he knows.   
  
The amount of damage is well-within the range of his expectations, which means that he's going to spend quite an absurd amount of time inside here, with nothing to do aside from sleeping and consuming bland, tasteless, drugs-and-protein-laden food. The higher-ups aren't going to spend money to send a useless trainee like him to a rehabilitation camp or to an ability-improvement program, so his following months are definitely going to reek of unparalleled boredom.  
  
His personal computer is inside his briefcase and he presses the button to call for an attending nurse so the robot can bring his briefcase within reach. His computer is his only company and that's also within his expectations, his hopes even. He can't wait to start working on his little project again—  
  
"Sir Vlastvier is leaving the health research department soon, isn't he?"  
"What are you saying! I heard he's still going to be stuck there for a few more weeks!"  
"Where the hell do you guys find these types of news anyway?!"  
"I heard from Mika that Sir Vlastvier successfully recovered though! He's really super cool!"  
"Yes, yes! I heard that he didn't even flinch or anything while they're running tests on him!"  
"He's so dreamy!"  
"You said it!"  
"Yes, that's so true—!"  
  
—Well.  
  
Against his better judgment, Oliver surreptitiously glances around, feeling a bit paranoid and awkward that Ash Vlastvier is apparently situated in the health research department—a place that's just down the hallway. It's been a month since their last confrontation, since the day that Oliver learned of Ash Vlastvier's birthday, since the poisonous kiss between them. His relief at not seeing Ash Vlastvier, along with the increased torment from his classmates, usually distracts him enough to avoid dragging his mind to thoughts regarding that venomous closeness they shared.   
  
…Usually.  
  
Oliver decides that there's no point wasting time and brain processes in thinking about someone who's probably busy getting injected with synchronization-increasing drugs and physical-improvement vaccines, on someone who's busy rising far away from inferior beings like him. He isn't curious, not even a little bit, to see Ash Vlastvier again. It isn't something like denial, because he really isn't interested in taking slow, baby steps to be closer to Ash Vlastvier.  
  
He isn't curious, because he knows that just like he will still be a pathetic, spineless loser in the future, Ash Vlastvier will still be a monster the next time they face each other.  
  
•  
  
Contrary to his calculations, Oliver receives the 'Release from Confinement' form just one month after he is sent to the infirmary for the treatment of his wounds. It's almost in tandem to the accelerated way he completed editing the syntax of his programming codes for the voice program he's been busying himself with for the past four weeks. If he's more scientifically-inclined, he can probably collect data on himself and observe whether his enhanced healing rate is in a cause-effect relationship with the way his mind (and his typing hand) seems to be working faster.  
  
"I think that will be a worthwhile research project," Oliver recites to the empty air in front of him, his gaze fixed on his computer screen where the sound waves from each syllable he just spoke are recorded and replayed and restructured into digital waves, "…don't you agree, sister?"  
  
    [It'll be totally better if you just shut up and keep reading your nerdy books, Oliver.]  
  
"I wonder if you still speak like this, after all this years?" Oliver wonders aloud, his eyes watching the way his voice program attempt to break down his words into binary codes, into something his software can understand, something his creation can formulate a response to. It doesn't surprise him in the slightest that his software crashes after two minutes of utterly failing to find the proper response to his words. There's only so much he can do to make a computer understand human language, especially since he's expecting his program to answer his questions and question his opinions. There's no way he can completely mimic his sister's speech; she's a completely normal human being, after all.  
  
[What's up, useless brother?]  
  
The computer program greets him with his sister's standard greeting, producing his sister's voice, adding his sister's inflection. It's a set of words that are totally out-of-place with what just transpired before his software crashed, but that's the best a machine can do. Or rather, that's the best the machine can do under his own programming codes. It's entirely possible that the voice program will develop into something revolutionary once it's under the hands of someone more intelligent than him.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]  
  
"My deepest apologies, sister," Oliver continues the conversation nevertheless, because mediocre intelligence and simple program codes are easy to remedy, and he still has time to improve, "I've been thinking."  
  
[You're always thinking, but it brings you absolutely nowhere!]  
  
"That's true," Oliver concedes, because that's the unchallenged truth, not only in this militaristic country, but also in the entire world. During the ancient ages, intelligence used to be a highly-prized attribute, since humanity was enamored with rolling out newer, better, compacter technologies, all the while leaving commoners to suffer from the waste said technology race spewed out of factories. It has been more than six hundred years since the ancient ages ended and the entire world has already settled into its new philosophies, rules, systems. "I'm fine with going nowhere though."  
  
[...You're really useless.]  
  
Oliver bitterly smiles, eyes shifting their focus on the 'Release from Confinement' form on his bedside table, without bothering to deny words that could sound like a human's on any other circumstances. But he is painfully aware that his real sister, the real Jade Payne, is instead ensconced within the impregnable walls of Freedom Union, masquerading as an admirable teenage pilot when her real self is really just a spoiled brat. He is regretfully conscious of the way the world sees his sister as someone much stronger than him. He knows, that's why he doesn't ever bother denying any of the words thrown at him, doesn't bother refusing the blows delivered to him.  
  
He's the one, above anyone else, who knows about his own weaknesses and failings.  
  
He knows.  
  
And once he leaves his infirmary bed, he will be back to his classmates who will still be disappointed at receiving detention for beating a fellow student to half-death, to his trainers who will look at him as somebody who doesn't exist outside of his abysmally low synchronization numbers.  
  
"…I really am."  
  
(And that's the truth.)  
  
•  
  
Completely exhausted, Oliver drags his feet against the glass floors paving the way from the Tier 4 training halls to the special military dormitories for higher-tiered trainees. Every single trainee who signs up for the initial assessment all possess unquestionable drive and motivation to persevere in climbing up the ranks in order to finally reach the coveted SPHERE pilot position; the higher-ups, however, believe that it's better to have more than just one incentive, that's why higher-tiered trainees continuously receive access to superior facilities. Oliver doesn't think there's any point in wasting money to change the floors from the usual cement-alloy to strengthened glass, but maybe that's the reason why he doesn't do well in this world.  
  
While he wobbles and sways as he trudges toward his assigned room, he makes sure to keep his gaze focused on his feet, as he tightens his grip on the specialized computer safely tucked close to his chest.   
  
Today is a very dangerous day.   
  
Annually, his bullies celebrate his birthday by making sure he suffers through enough misery to last him an entire year.  
  
He knows that holding onto something important isn't going to help him if he finds himself in a tight situation, but he is particularly productive today. Actually, it's not just today; recently, he's been improving really quickly when it comes to learning more advanced scripts to use in his software. Once he reaches the confines of his dorm room, he plans on duplicating the dedicated server he reprogrammed in the computer in his arms, so he can have a back-up of his software—  
  
Ah.  
  
…Isn't it unfortunate?  
  
"Happy Birthday, Oliver Payne," his previous trainer from Tier 3 is waiting for him in front of his room, a smile lighting up his normally-stern face, the switchblade in his hands a clear symbol of the sincerity behind his birthday greeting.  
  
"…Thank you." Oliver's grip on his computer tightens even more, his fatigued knees buckling and knocking together awkwardly as he takes slow steps away from where his previous teacher is standing. He's usually accepting of whatever punishment the world wants to hand to him, but today is important, because he's making great progress in improving his skills, even if it's regarding a topic that can't help him in his pilot training.  
  
His deliberately slow retreat stutters into a halt though, once he realizes that he's caught in-between his previous trainer and his current classmates, both factions wearing identical furious expressions on their faces. The appearance of his classmates effectively snuffs out any hope that he can settle this without injuries. Oliver just hopes that his computer makes it out of this encounter unscathed.   
  
"Is that how you fooled the system, brat?" His previous trainer's gait looks even more unstable than his. "My supervisors are all nagging me, scolding me for promoting a useless brat like you, berating me for not questioning the promotion verdict, and now they want to expel me from my job—because of you! They want to fire me! ME! They want to punish me, all because of YOU!"  
  
Oliver opens his mouth to offer applying for a demotion, just so everyone can finally stop getting affected and irritated by things that happen to him, but before he can even make his voice box work, hands already reach out for him, trapping his limbs behind his back. The sudden tug of his arms backwards is painful, but the sickening thud of his computer crashing against the glass floors bring him more anguish.  
  
And because the computer with him is already customized to only hold one program—  
  
[What's up, useless brother?]  
  
Oliver bites his lip anxiously. The familiar voice of his sister calls out from the slightly broken computer, the volume largely unaffected by the fall. The deceptively human voice catches the attention of his bullies for a short moment, but because they're more interested in strength and power, the idea of messing around with a computer doesn't even cross their minds.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]  
  
The software jumps to the script after failing to receive additional voice input from Oliver.  
  
[Don't tell me you just want to waste my time? That'll be super uncool!]  
  
Oliver senses it coming. The air hisses warningly before his previous trainer's polished leather shoe enters his field of vision, before said shoe swings forward in a motion he's accustomed to. Before the shoe can connect with an already-cracked computer screen, Oliver is already hunched forward protectively, eagerly receiving the kick meant for his computer with his shoulders. He keeps his mouth shut, as kicks descend upon him, as the digital version of the sister he hasn't seen in ten years mockingly laughs at him.  
  
[Damn, you're pathetic. It depresses me to remember that we're related.]  
  
Ah.  
  
It doesn't look like his tormentors are going to stop anytime soon.  
  
…Ah.  
  
Well, maybe he can do something else while they're busy?  
  
"But we are related, sister," Oliver mumbles to his computer, his words uttered extra-carefully since there's already a cut on his upper lip and that might affect the word recognition, "there's nothing we can do about that."  
  
[I try my best to forget about your existence. That works most of the time, idiot.]  
  
If his tormentors find it weird or disgusting that he's mumbling words that receive synthetic voice responses from his computer, they don't use words to express it. Instead, the blows that rain down on his body grow heavier and more painful, like a steady downpour of fist-sized hailstones.  
  
The rain of hail suddenly disappear without warning and Oliver doesn't even have time to blink before it's replaced by a sharp thunderstorm, by a well-aimed kick to his ribs that sends him flying more than ten meters away. A wall catches him unwillingly, his sore back knocking against the cement-alloy so hard that he wavers between consciousness and unconsciousness immediately afterwards.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Hey! Are you ignoring me?! You actually dare to ignore?! A useless, stupid person like you, is ignoring someone like me?! How irritating!]  
  
"Shut up," a scratchy voice commands the irritated voice of his sister, "you're noisy."  
  
[H-H-H-How dare you?! Who are you anyway?! You're not my eternal loser brother!]  
  
"Voice recognition, huh?" The person takes a step closer to the computer, picks it up and speaks directly to the microphone embedded on the center of the keyboard: "I told you to shut up."  
  
[...Program entering forced hibernation mode. Saving data, saving data, progress 100%]  
  
It's an ability that he programmed into his computer, to enter a forced hibernation mode once it detected a harmful stimulus, but it's still nothing short of amazing to witness it happen firsthand, to see something like a slightly-more-intelligent-than-normal machine be intimidated by a living, breathing person.   
  
"A-A-A-A-AHHHH—! It's a beast! A monster! Quick! Call the security team! Faster, before it—!"  
  
Oliver's short-lived relief at seeing the person place his now-hibernating computer down on the floor, instead of simply chucking it, disappears as he realizes that the people around him are in grave danger.   
  
It's almost laughable, how the people around him fail to recognize the person, the monster, the white-haired beast in front of their eyes. Oliver doesn't understand how they cannot recognize Ash Vlastvier when he sounds the same, acts the same, grins the same as before. The only things that changed are the colors of his eyes and hair, but other than that, everything is still the same, the same Ash Vlastvier that he hasn't seen for quite some time. It's almost pathetic, how the people panicking around them fail to recognize their idol, when they claim to regard Ash Vlastvier with an unhealthy amount of respect.  
  
"…Long time no see," Oliver attempts small-talk, if only to distract the unhinged-looking pilot enough so that his fellow trainees have time to gain their wits and assess the situation properly and escape. And even though he doesn't really care for the answer, he ventures to ask: "How are you feeling?"   
  
"Shut up." Ash Vlastvier bares his teeth, sparkly white teeth that would have looked lovely in toothpaste commercials if not for the bloodthirsty grin that comes along with it. "Shut up!"  
  
Oliver worries his lip between his not-so-sparkly teeth, gingerly standing up while seeking assistance from the wall directly behind him. His fingers are trembling in instinctive fear, because even while he's suppressing any train of thoughts that can lead to how frightening Ash Vlastvier is right now, his humanity intuitively understands the amount of shit he's in. His knees knock together as he quivers with a mixture of terror and tiredness.   
  
"—Yes, yes, it's an escaped beast! …What do you mean there are no beasts inside the tower? I'm telling you, there's a wild beast here! I don't care if it's a top-secret military thing or whatever, but you need to help us!"  
  
"It's not a beast," Oliver struggles to keep his voice above a mere whisper, his chest wheezing with each moment he spends standing upright, "can't you see it's—"  
  
…It's—  
  
What should he say? Does it even matter if his fellow trainees understood the so-called wild-beast's identity? The important thing here is to flee this place. And it's not like the others are going to believe his words! Yes, the correct thing to do is to just force everyone to flee from this dangerous situation.  
  
"OH HOLY HELL—! IT'S MR. ASH VLASTVIER!"  
  
The person who belatedly manages to recognize the intruder to their 'Let's beat Oliver up on his birthday!' party forfeits his life the moment he yells those words.   
  
Oliver doesn't even have time to gasp in shock as he witnesses a fellow trainee die, quite messily, in front of his dilated eyes. His heart skips a couple of beats before seemingly recovering from its shock-induced stupor, before resuming a head-pounding drumbeat against his ribcage. Grand Romania's hallways normally smell like an odd mixture of gunpowder, oil and ozone; now, the smell of blood and torn flesh permeate every inch of the glass floors and cement-alloy walls.   
  
His fellow trainees recover their bearings, one by one, and resume to trip over imaginary obstacles, screaming out incoherent words that brings noise pollution instead of actual help.  
  
The country's so-called hero is actually a bloodthirsty monster. Oliver has always known about Ash Vlastvier's unhealthy fixation with destruction, but he supposes that while that fact hasn't exactly been a secret, everybody just contented themselves with the thought that their top-rank pilot isn't actually a beast.  
  
Contradictory to his well-established cowardice, Oliver limps towards the crazily grinning Ash Vlastvier, gravitating towards the source of chaos instead of fleeing from it. His knees still wobble and quiver with each step he makes, but he's moving forward steadily, eyes wide and hyper-aware of his surroundings. The person in front of him may have bleach-white hair and blood-red eyes, but he remains as Ash Vlastvier. He's still the same person who has unfailingly made his life a very painful hell ever since their first meeting five years ago. He's still the same person who somehow believes that there's something worth mentioning regarding his intelligence test scores. He's still the same person who Oliver admires for the sheer amount of confidence and control and utter supremacy.   
  
He's still Ash Vlastvier.  
  
And because he's still that person, Oliver hopes that Ash Vlastvier manages to recognize his approaching figure, manages to feel annoyance at having a filthy being approach him, manages to retrieve his control from whatever impulsive state he's subjected to.  
  
"Yes, I'm Ash Vlastvier," the white-haired teen confirms his identity, smirking at the horror that dawns on everybody's faces. "And now that you know who I am—"  
  
Oliver whips his head around so fast that he feels his neck muscles straining painfully, but that's beside the point, since he needs to shout, needs to tell the others to run the hell away, NOW—  
  
"…I have to kill you."  
  
It doesn't even take two minutes.  
  
There's no metal barrier that descends from the ceiling, but everybody is confined in the tiny space that shrinks even more with each reach of Ash's wire-thin sword.   
  
Oliver can only keep his eyes wide open so he doesn't forget the victims' final moments, caught in the web of someone they can't even dream to defeat, their lives forfeited because of a simple knowledge that links a Very Important Person to a monstrous result of the government's bid for power. He leans heavily against the wall, his entire body simultaneously stiffening in an attempt to cease drawing attention, while melting shakily from distress.   
  
Ash Vlastvier finishes up the purging of the trainees who learned of his secret, looking immensely dissatisfied with the short-lived fight. Oliver takes in a deep breath, shuddering as he thinks about how much stronger the 01 pilot is now. Somehow, he doesn't imagine that Ash Vlastvier volunteered to be a guinea pig for whatever the military needed him for; of course, there's no confirmation that Ash Vlastvier underwent an improvement experiment, but it's nevertheless too obvious to Oliver's eyes.  
  
As if to answer Oliver's unvoiced questions, Ash Vlastvier turns to him with a bloody smile, before disappearing from his sight in a flash, before reappearing right in front of him with a punch connecting directly to his left cheek.  
  
Oliver digs his elbows against the unyielding walls, in an effort to minimize the distance he's flung to. The action renews the throbbing of pain on his ribs and Oliver feels bile crawling up his throat. There's nobody around who can witness his pathetic act of vomiting all over the place, but that doesn't lessen the amount of shameful humiliation that burns at his cheeks. He manages to simply end up a couple of paces away, but Ash Vlastvier is already closing that short distance with brisk steps. Oliver feebly raises his hands in front of his chest, his body thrumming with unease as he attempts to mimic a defensive stance he knows nothing about.  
  
Ash Vlastvier's now-crimson eyes look vaguely amused, but that's probably just a trick of light, because there's nothing lighthearted or amusing with the kick he delivers directly to Oliver's kneecaps. Oliver's legs give out from the explosion of pain. He sinks to the ground in a twitching, trembling mess, but before he can completely face-fault to the bloodied glass floors, Ash Vlastvier pulls him up roughly by his aching elbows. There's nothing remotely gentle about the action, and the rough treatment continues as Oliver finds his breath knocked out of him as Ash Vlastvier slams his back forcefully against the wall.  
  
Oliver dimly hopes that his spine is strong enough to withstand the assault, because he isn't looking forward to paralysis in case his spinal cord is damaged by the repeated slamming.  
  
…Somehow, in the middle of his hazy wishing for fewer injuries, Oliver sort-of understands the crazed light bubbling underneath Ash Vlastvier's eyes.  
  
His mind is simultaneously dull with immense pain and clear with blank thoughts that lead to nowhere.  
  
Oliver doesn't think of poisons and venoms when Ash Vlastvier leans down, brings their intermingling breaths unbearably closer, and touches their lips together in a union that robs him of his heartbeat altogether. His pulse freezes from the agonizing proximity of someone so powerful and his heart doesn't resume its pounding until his tormentor tentatively retreats a few centimeters away. There's a pause that almost lulls him into expecting something slightly tender.  
  
Oliver doesn't think of spilled blood and broken bones when Ash Vlastvier holds his unmoving form down by his arms, clamps down hard enough to raise red lines on his skin, and nips the wounded edge on his upper lip. The action elicits a sharp gasp from him, since his tormentor seems intent on making his current injuries worse. Sharp teeth continue their path down to the cut near his chin, to the swollen skin on his upper neck, to the laceration on his right collarbone. Claw-like fingers squeeze his arms with strength sufficient to break bones and he lets out an uncontrolled gasp again when the grip tightens even more.  
  
Oliver doesn't think of roaming security cameras and inquiring pilot engineers when Ash Vlastvier shifts a knife-sharp hand from trembling elbows to push at a dislocated shoulder, moves another hand to forcefully remove the flimsy training uniform shirt from Oliver's body, and bites down on the exposed skin with the intention to bring about more wounds to his figure. He keeps his arms carefully still, because he isn't sure if it's a good idea to do anything that might end his tormentor's instinct-driven stupor. There's a steady flow of agony to his nerve endings, to the point that Oliver himself isn't sure if he can remain conscious for much longer, since his vision is darkening and his entire body is swaying unsteadily.  
  
Oliver doesn't think of his own fifteenth birthday when Ash Vlastvier growls at him in a decidedly feral manner, punches him on his gut, and twists his shoulder into an even worse position.   
  
Oliver doesn't think of the corpses surrounding them, as well as the fact that he's once again alive after an encounter with the endlessly violent pilot, when Ash Vlastvier continues to divest him of his clothes.  
  
…And until the entire affair is finished, until the moment that he shakily puts on his clothes, until the minute he wobbles away from the hallway soaked in a viscous of gore and body fluids, until the time he scrubs off the sweat, grime, semen and fear from his body, Oliver doesn't think of anything at all.  
  
•  
  
The last week of June, following his stressful birthday, passes by quickly enough that Oliver's wounds don't even have time to properly heal yet. His entire body is covered with five layers of bandages and gauzes, his skin itching and crawling with medicine applied topically over his pores, his veins pulsing and writhing underneath with injected drugs that supposedly hastens regeneration. Drips of anesthesia are inside his circulatory system too, spreading mild numbness all throughout his body.  
  
His days pass by relatively peacefully, almost to the point of inducing boredom, since he only busies himself with his personal computer and there's nobody left (alive) in his class to visit him in the infirmary. Even the robot nurses milling around seem to thrum with calmness, an impossible feat for mechanized beings that supposedly only radiate digital signals from metal cores.   
  
That tranquility is deceptive though; Grand Romania is practically boiling right now, rather literally filled to bursting with artillery being shipped and stored even at residential lots. Oliver isn't the type to pay attention to the government's announcements or to the King's speeches, so his details are rather vague; he is fairly certain though that Grand Romania is targeting to completely overhaul their international reputation of being dead-last to being a terrifying force to behold before January of AC 687. There are some extremely dangerous missions lined up towards the end of the year and he thinks that there should be a limit to how much the government wants to show off its power by enforcing a mandatory live broadcast of said missions.  
  
—"We have sent our word to Central Tower, informing them that they have no chance of winning this bout. If they are foolish enough to ignore our Declaration, approved by myself, the Highest King, then they are truly pitiful beings indeed."   
  
The current reigning King, Cesar Black, has twenty cameras focused on his face, the angles only varying slightly and unnecessarily, in Oliver's opinion, because there's no way anyone is actually interested in having a 360-degree view of the King and his military uniform. The facial focus effectively reminds Oliver that the King truly is the father of Davy Black—the resemblance is really strong in the sharp lines of the jaw and chin, in the deep-ebony hair, in the brilliant-emerald irises.   
  
—"Our glorious country will remain undefeated from this point onwards, because The Chosen One fights for us, for the sake of our brilliant futures, for the heroic act of altering the course of history forever!"  
  
Oliver rolls his eyes at the embellished speech, fully aware that there's no such heroism present in Ash Vlastvier or in any other pilot for that matter. He doesn't quite understand the King's reasons for avoiding the cold truth that Grand Romania seeks to expand its territories and its power, that's why the country is keen to be at war with everybody else. It's not like Grand Romania citizens aren't aware of the country's ambitions. Ignorance isn't an option when military posts are installed at every intersection, when artillery shipments freely use the underground city highways, when people literally sleep beside guns and unassembled missile parts.  
  
The King projects more words to the hundreds of microphones shoved in front of him, but Oliver doesn't pay them any mind, because they're just probably the same old spiel that kings shout about in mediocre hopes to bring enthusiasm and luck to the knights that do all the work. The wall-screen in front of him then splits the view into two: the left pane showing the King making his televised speech from the Castles of Nevermore, a sprawl of strengthened brick-and-metal fortresses at the junction of the above-ground and under-ground territories; the right pane broadcasting Ash Vlastvier climbing up his remade SPHERE, AETHER, bypassing ten tentacle-like arms that are now contracted inside sheaths by the machine's waist.   
  
Oliver sinks to his infirmary bed, nearly hearing the trembles and whines of the entire headquarters' building as AETHER proceeds to its launching sequence. The newly constructed launch hangar for the remade SPHEREs is now located at the top-most level, as if to further cement the fact that the pilots are untouchable beings. The previous launch hangar is apparently getting transformed into a new military research pod, but he isn't quite sure, since he rarely pays attention to the government's announcements. It's not like it matters, since it's not like he has any reason to oppose or agree with the government's policies, especially since he's not just simply weak: he's a pathetically weak foreigner who's here to be a political hostage.  
  
AETHER, despite its etymology of its name, is far from light and airy, far from being considered ethereal. The SPHERE is bulky and foreboding, with black and navy blue painting its outer armor, with weapons stored at practically each limb and opening, with an eerie shadowy black circle for a face. It's definitely a SPHERE meant to strike terror into the souls of those who gaze upon its form.  
  
Somehow, in the midst of actually paying attention to a government broadcast, Oliver realizes that Ash Vlastvier isn't a hero at all, isn't even The Chosen One, isn't even the most supreme; rather, Ash Vlastvier is a monster born from the wombs of humanity's greed for power. Ash Vlastvier's white hair and pale skin is swallowed by his all-black pilot uniform and his dark SPHERE and Oliver bites his lip in a strange case of anxiety. Without thinking much about it, Oliver ends up massaging the wound on his neck—something that can be called a 'hickey' during the ancient times, he supposes—kneading in circular motions until the fresh scab falls away with a whisper of pain, rubbing the irritated skin until the wound completely re-opens and bleeds and he only stops when the robot nurses barge into his room after the elevated blood pressure levels alarm resounds in the ward.  
  
Oliver ends up getting transferred to a bed farther from the wall-screen and much nearer to the door. He almost regrets his mindless action because now it's far more challenging to watch the broadcast since he has to tilt his body and strain his neck uncomfortably. But then the almost-regret is short-lived, since he reaches out for his personal computer and starts accessing the government's camera feed directly with his video programs. The beauty of his new position is that he's situated far from the installed security camera as well, which means that there will be no surveillance evidence of him doing the low-level hacking.  
  
He attains the camera feeds from a total of sixty cameras (twenty-four on The King and the Castles of Nevermore, seven on the launch hangar, twenty-nine on the Eurasian border where the designated battle is about to commence) within five minutes. It's either a testament to how advanced he's become when it comes to computers, or proof of how much Grand Romania doesn't care about its own security that doesn't involve artillery and SPHEREs.  
  
…It doesn't take long for Oliver to notice that something is off about the broadcast.   
  
The televised version of the battle coverage shows Ash Vlastvier still in the middle of his launch sequence, with AETHER still securely docked inside the hangar. The real-time camera feed, trembling with static and noise, shows that Ash Vlastvier is already locked in combat with the Central Tower SPHERE.   
  
Oliver selects three choice cameras that establish the view completely: ten tentacle-like hands shooting out of their sheaths, wrapping their mechanical grip around the enemy SPHERE's limbs. A tall, bulky plasma cannon lies broken in the background, and Oliver discerns the attack behind the damage and splits of the cannon's frame. The outer armor covering of the Central Tower unit is faintly glowing with heat, the sound of scorched earth crackling across the camera feed. There's no answering burning hiss from AETHER's hands, which means that their country's engineers successfully managed to develop a metal-alloy that can withstand extreme temperatures.  
  
The enemy SPHERE's response time is still admirable given the amount of visible damage dealt to it, since it managed to somehow block an attack from an arm and its accompanying short sword. The enemy SPHERE escapes instant decapitation from the previous attack, but Oliver can see the frantic blinking of the emergency infrared light installed on the enemy unit's forehead, the sign for a distressed call for help. It's wholly possible that the enemy machine is already on its double-critical level, which means that Grand Romania's victory is near.  
  
Judging from the way Ash Vlastvier doesn't portray an ounce of mercy on his opponent—knocking down the enemy by striking quickly on the hip-leg junctions of the machine, followed by jumping on top of the fallen unit and crushing a leg and outstripping the armor of another leg—there's no way the government will show the real happenings to the public. The King apparently operates on the principle that people actually accept that Ash Vlastvier is a hero instead of a monster.  
  
Oliver refocuses on the video feed just in time to witness AETHER's cockpit receive mild damage from a last-minute counterattack rife with desperation, just in time to watch AETHER's hand pierce the opponent's cockpit. The way Ash Vlastvier stretches a hand out in order to completely crush the Central Tower SPHERE's cockpit is unnecessarily cruel—unnecessarily, because the act of robbing someone of her life is already cruel enough; there's no sound logic behind forcefully demonstrating the difference in power.  
  
…And then the infamous OPHAN from Central Tower enters the battlefield, and Oliver forgets to breathe.  
  
•  
  
Returning to his assigned training tier feels almost surreal, because there's absolutely no trace left behind of the events that happened last June 20 of AC 686. The trainers and engineers assigned to his tier remains the same; the hallways are now devoid of any spilled blood and torn bodies. He doesn't attempt to probe further aside from the low-level search he makes on the trainee database; a search that gives him nothing but 'Match not found' results for each (dead) classmate he types, as though said classmates didn't even exist in the first place.  
  
…Though being placed in an entirely different classroom, with a wholly altered class member list, doesn't seem to be doing wonders to Oliver's status as the universal target for bullying. His new classmates aren't stupid; of course they know about him and his unfair promotion and now he's intruding on their turf.  
  
Oliver has been expecting their attack, ever since words of acknowledgement left their current trainer's mouth. The hallways connecting their training room to the trainee locker areas seem more cramped and shadowy, as though hinting on the terrible beating he's going to receive soon. He manages to reach his locker, already worn-down and lockless only two days since he started using it. His extra uniform inside is wet with some liquid that he doesn't even want to identify, dirtied by some mud-like emulsion that probably hails from one of their laboratory hands-on classes. He doesn't get a chance to retrieve his dirty clothes and stuff them inside his bag, because the lights in the locker room begin to flicker intermittently. The floor tiles seem to shiver and shake along with the blinking lights and Oliver expects it, expects the entire class to step out from the shadows and the hidden corners, expects everyone to look at him with menacingly bared teeth.   
  
His personal computer is buried underneath his laundry pile inside his dorm room, so he has nothing to protect in his person. Nevertheless, Oliver dislikes pain so he still retreats instinctively, his back knocking against the row of lockers. Cold metal burns through his trainee shirt, presses bruises against his thinly-veiled skin, rattles the mark on his upper back, just below his nape.   
  
Ignoring his surroundings as a way of coping with his circumstances is approved by his lifetime of experience when it comes to being the receiving end of bullies' attacks, so Oliver does just that: shuts down his senses and averts his eyes from the things happening right in front of him. The voluntary descent to oblivion works for the next hour, since anger is apparently enough of a fuel for fellow trainees who are supposedly drained by all the harsh exercises mandated by the government's pilot training program. Oliver is quite confident that his ability to divert his attention from his surroundings to a blissful void can last until he keels over from lack of nutrient or electrolyte intake; he doesn't get the opportunity to test his faith on his ability, because after one hour of getting stomped on by his new set of classmates, somebody not invited to the lynching party makes a late appearance. And as much as Oliver takes pride in his ability to completely ignore the events transpiring around him, it's just impossible to overlook a presence that threatens to drown everyone inside suffocating darkness.  
  
A couple of minutes pass with only the sounds of labored breathing and stressed flexing of muscles punctuating the otherwise tense silence.   
  
With much difficulty, Oliver lifts his face from its spot on the floor, nose throbbing with pain, cut on his left eyebrow swelling with inflammatory cytokines. His legs feel like half-solidified jelly; with great effort, he stands up and leans against the row of lockers so that his twisted right ankle doesn't drag him back down to the grimy floor. He moves with as little noise as possible, his blood confusedly rushing everywhere, his thoughts crossing and crashing against each other. He's caught between contradictions—he doesn't want to draw attention to himself, yet he feels like he needs to catch Ash Vlastvier's murderous gaze—he doesn't want anyone to be on the receiving end of Ash Vlastvier's temper tantrums, yet he wants to somehow punish the bullies around him—and he doesn't know what to choose, doesn't even know that he's allowed the luxury of choices.  
  
"Who gave you the right to punish that brat?" Ash Vlastvier doesn't specify a name, most possibly because he doesn't even care to remember the name of the person he's been using as a punching bag for five years, but everyone nevertheless understands who he is referring to. And the ensuing pause gives everyone within listening range a moment to blink in confusion, because it almost sounds as though Ash Vlastvier disapproves of Oliver beaten up. The pause is thankfully short-lived, so any confusion is easily cleared up anyway. "Only the powerful are granted the right to punish others, so… Do you think you are powerful enough to punish him?"  
  
Ash Vlastvier gives a little growl when nobody dares to answer him.   
  
Oliver thinks it's supremely unfair to expect ordinary people like them to be able to strike back to the number one pilot, even if it's only through harmless words. No doubt that his fellow classmates are frozen to their spots due to the 01's powerful glare—crimson eyes almost glowing under the flickering lights. A malevolent aura seems to stretch out from the entirety of Ash Vlastvier's body and even Oliver's heart refuses to beat.  
  
…He's weak and pathetic and he is rooted to his spot just like everyone else, but Oliver still finds himself voicing out words that serve no purpose other than to break the overpowering silence with a feeble attempt to placate a wild monster about to go berserk.   
  
"…It's a trait for those who aren't the strongest," he falters, clears his throat and tastes warm blood in his tongue, "to overestimate themselves. But that doesn't mean," he nervously swallows the blood before it threatens to overwhelm his taste buds, "…uh, it doesn't mean that they're correct in thinking that they're truly strong."  
  
Eyes focus on his wretched form that can't even stay upright without assistance from the sturdy metal lockers, and Oliver can almost hear the sizzling of impatience and hatred coming from his classmates. There's no doubt that they misunderstood his words as an insult, even though all he wants is for them to escape from this locker room so that the tragedy doesn't repeat. Judging from the way a collective sigh of relief propagates around the room, there's also no doubt that they're misreading the way Ash Vlastvier takes a light step forward, away from his earlier position of bodily blocking the only escape route.   
  
Oliver almost squeezes his eyes as an innate reaction against painful experiences, but he commands himself to stay focused, because he's the only one who can yell at his fellow trainees to start running away, because he's the only one who can receive the open-palmed hit Ash Vlastvier strikes him with.   
  
It happens in less than a fraction of a second, because there's no such thing as time slowing down to a standstill when important things are happening. Oliver attempts to scream at his fellow trainees, to rouse them out of their fear-induced stupor, but he bites his tongue accidentally when he doubles over to nurse his aching stomach.   
  
The strikes that rain down on his already-battered form are drenched with an almost-desperate violence, so Oliver decides to not let out any sounds of protest or complaints. It's a strange decision, all things considered, since he doesn't owe Ash Vlastvier anything, since there's no logical explanation behind wanting to be the one to take on all the viciousness bubbling underneath the 01's hands.   
  
…Oliver then resolves that remaining blissfully ignorant of his surroundings is really the best way to deal with things, since conscious thoughts are too troublesome to deal with, stealthily leading him in circles that end in conclusions that make no sense.  
  
Unlike the tragedy a little over than a month ago, Davy Black disrupts the proceedings just as Oliver is starting to feel panic at the way his clothes are acquiring more and more rips with each blow that lands on him. And unlike Davy Black's usual composed disposition, the 02 pilot now appears fatigued and frazzled, with his pilot uniform seemingly haphazardly slipped on, the lines on his forehead deep and prominent.   
  
"Ash Vlastvier, you should stop ruining your image even further, since it just damages the honor of being a pilot quite thoroughly—"  
  
Oliver easily crumples like a broken rag doll as soon as Ash Vlastvier relinquishes the unforgiving grip on his left arm. His legs are now like completely melted gel, shamefully unable to support his weight. A traitorous thought crosses Oliver's mind as he silently watches Ash Vlastvier transfer his rough hold to Davy Black's neck instead. Oliver hears snarls and sneers exchanged between the top two pilots and he thinks (again) that Davy Black is just like him, in this case, powerless against the exact same oppressor.  
  
…But then Ash Vlastvier doesn't seem like he's interested in relenting in his pursuit of choking his fellow pilot to death, so Oliver scrambles to sit upright, to crawl forward, to place himself in harm's way once again just so the tyrant's attention will shift back to him, just so there's nobody else who will die ahead of Oliver in the hands of Ash Vlastvier.  
  
"Ash—" and Oliver only hesitates for a split-second, only wavers a little when saying a name that he hasn't said since their last frenzied encounter, "Ash Vlastvier—STOP!"   
  
Oliver isn't quite sure on what to do next, after yelling the 01's pilot's name that he definitely doesn't have the permission to even whisper, but the ground rumbles almost warningly, and Davy Black twists his neck to fix Oliver a glare that still looks compelling despite the situation he's in. "I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"  
  
Ash Vlastvier doesn't pay the two of them any mind, and Oliver drags his jelly-like legs forward, because he's going to stop Ash Vlastvier, even if it means bodily clinging to a leg or something, even if it means enduring Davy Black's screams and hatred for the rest of his life.  
  
"I DON'T NEED YOUR PATHETIC ASS TO SAVE ME—!"  
  
The ground, or rather, the entire building shakes again, the lights overhead blinking in an uncoordinated frenzy. There's a deep grumble that reverberates from the ground all the way to Oliver's ears, and he almost allows himself to feel a smidgen of relief at the clash between the top two pilots diffusing instantly. A low whining sound spills out from the speakers installed around the headquarters and it's a sound that Oliver has memorized and hoped to never hear in his entire life.  
  
[CODE 999]  
[All pilots are to report to the launching hangar, proceed to launch codes 999-RED in 120 seconds]  
[All staff are to report to their respective 999 positions, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]  
[All trainees are to report to their respective emergency pads, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]  
[All civilians are to report to their assigned evacuation centers, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 600 seconds]  
[CODE 999, ALERT, CODE 999]  
  
Just like that, Ash Vlastvier and Davy Black leave the locker room way beneath their clearance levels. Just like that, his fellow trainees fall all over themselves to make their way to their respective emergency pads drilled into them at least once a month.  
  
Oliver doesn't know anything about the situation outside the headquarters, because he isn't meant to know anything beyond what is broadcasted by the government. Everyone shuffles obediently to their assigned locations, even without knowing anything about the reason for emergency code blasting out of the speakers. The ground trembles once again, the overhead lights starting to burst one after another like little supernovas.   
  
…And just like that, Oliver hugs his knees and leans against the rattling metal lockers, mind shutting down so that he can patiently wait for the emergency situation to pass, so that he can effectively chase out thoughts that are somehow connected to wanting to change his current state of helplessness.  
  
•  
  
It's almost dinnertime when Oliver unfolds his knees and attempts to make his way to the computer labs, the emergency code still singing an undesirable melody all over the headquarters. Most of the hallways are pitch-black, while some are in a dizzying limbo of dark and light, since a huge number of the ceiling lights have already exploded hours ago. He keeps his palm open against the corridor walls, lets his memory and the infrastructure guide him when his eyes fail to absorb any reflected light waves in his surroundings.   
  
There are other, nearer, assigned emergency pads aside from the computer labs, but while he is realistic enough to understand that he can't keep on avoiding them forever, he also isn't masochistic enough to actively seek his classmates after he managed to sort-of escape from them. The longer walk should give him enough time to sort out his thoughts, to put a stop to the continuous replay of Davy Black's hate-filled screams intermixed with Ash Vlastvier's usual bloodthirsty eyes, to familiarize himself with the echoes of helplessness that ripple through his body.   
  
…His thoughts are still in dismaying state of disarray when he enters the empty computer lab—or rather, a not-so-empty computer lab.   
  
Oliver finds his voice after a full minute of gaping speechlessly.  
  
"Y-Y-Y-Y-Your Majesty, the Highest King!" Oliver doesn't even have time to think about how ironic it is for him to kneel down and kiss the floor in front of a king of a different monarchy, doesn't even have time to think past his body's protests of pain from his injuries, doesn't even have time to worry about his pathetic appearance while spouting off words that are drilled into them every single day. "It is my greatest honor to be blessed with your presence!"  
  
Oliver faintly hopes that there's no hint of bitterness in his words. During his first trip to Grand Romania nearly twelve years ago, Oliver didn't even catch a glimpse of The King, even when his first trip wasn't actually the vacation that his parents told him about, but was actually a deposit of a political hostage to an enemy country. For so long, Oliver hasn't even met The King. Oliver doesn't really peg The King as someone who easily waltzes in and out of commoners' areas.  
  
…A headache is building up underneath his temples, all the facts he knows about The King spinning together to form unintelligible hypotheses and conclusions.   
  
As though reading his mind, The King stretches out one hand and points it towards the projector screen in front of the room, and Oliver understands The King's reason for appearing in front of him.  
  
Suddenly, Oliver's throat is too dry. The pain radiating from his open wounds and bruising injuries is now pushed to the back of his mind. His dilated eyes are focused unsteadily to the video projected in front of the computer lab he has started to view as his only sanctuary.  
  
"Time is precious, I'm sure you understand, so I won't beat around the bush." The King's voice is gruff with age and experience that his son, Davy Black, lacks. "I am all too aware of the, ah, peculiar relationship between you and Ash."  
  
Oliver meets the piercing glare head-on. "He bullies me… a lot."  
  
The King doesn't even bother raising an eyebrow at the response of a commoner. "You seem to be the only one who can recognize and -well, there isn't a proper term for this, is there?- reach out to Ash while he's on the Bloody Beast Mode."  
  
…Bloody Beast Mode?  
  
How appropriate for Ash Vlastvier.   
  
Instead of feeling satisfaction at having gained additional knowledge (—so the government really is the one behind Ash Vlastvier's transformation, called a Bloody Beast Mode—) Oliver only feels irritation and a flare of something that is deeply akin to anger.  
  
"My ex-classmates merely failed to account of changes in hair color and—"  
  
"Ash also seems rather fond of utilizing you as how one would use a stress-ball, yes?" Disregarding Oliver's responses, The King plows on with his statements that are likely designed to pin Oliver down into the chopping block. "And for someone with your strength statistics, you seem to do exceptionally well in surviving against the very, ah, deadly Ash, hmm?"  
  
Oliver realizes that The King's little message is definitely timed and practiced, because the scene being projected changes the moment The King finishes speaking. Oliver doesn't need to continue watching the footage in order to understand what The King is implying.   
  
"I hate him," from the edge of his eye, Oliver can still see the security camera's recording of his mouth being devoured by the berserk Ash Vlastvier while his arm is getting twisted into an impossible position, "and while I don't presume I can vouch for him, I'm pretty sure he hates me too."  
  
"Pretending to be dumb doesn't quite fit someone as supposedly intelligent as you, don't you agree?" The King smirks at him as though he is merely playing along with The King's plans. "I assure you, I'm also very aware that Ash hacked into the promotion verdict database just so you can move up the ranks."  
  
Oliver heaves a sigh, resisting the urge to run a hand through his blood-matted hair. It's quite easy to read that The King wants to intimidate him into docile obedience. It's quite a quick decision to resolve to not give in.  
  
"…What do you want with me then? Since you're so convinced that there's something that's not quite hate between me and Ash Vlastvier—"  
  
The King's carefully neutral façade breaks into a pleasant smile—a split-second afterwards, The King's lips curl down in a disgusted snarl, his facial features transforming into something that is more befitting a King of a country who wants to destroy everyone else into submission.  
  
"You are nothing. You are just someone thrown away by your own worthless family. You are just a relic from a kingdom that doesn't even exist anymore. You are useless." The King's snarl reverts back to his earlier amiable, friendly smile, though he continues glaring at Oliver. "You will be pleased to note that I, Cesar Black, in my glorious name, am offering you a position as a lead scientist in any underground research institute of your choice."  
  
"…Underground, huh?"   
  
Oliver feels the floor beneath his feet sway to the beat of a pendulum's swing.   
  
The King's smile turns wicked. "It won't do for Ash to be seen hanging around garbage like you. It won't do for Ash to keep on depending on you for stress-release. It won't do for Ash to think that just because he's our best pilot, that it's fine for him to continue bending the rules of "THE WEAK SHALL PERISH", just for your sake!"  
  
Oliver's gaze travels down the King's outstretched arms—one is now pointed accusingly towards him, while another one is gripping the edge of the sophisticated-looking teacher's table hard enough for his handprint to imprint on the table's clear glass surface. The King's composure is now broken into pieces and Oliver almost wonders about Ash Vlastvier's unique capability of driving everyone around him crazy.   
  
The King's glare is heavy with impatience, so Oliver hurriedly makes a decision, and he opens his mouth to answer—   
  
•  
  
It's been a long day—with him getting accosted by his classmates in the locker room, with him crossing paths with Ash Vlastvier once again, with the Emergency CODE 999 alarms, with the encounter with Cesar Black in the computer labs—and Oliver wants to do nothing else but sleep, especially since he has early lessons tomorrow morning.  
  
…He wants to do nothing but sleep, but he doesn't even try to lie on his back, doesn't even attempt to savor the privacy of having his own room because nobody is willing to share a room with the sole survivor of an entire class 'disappearance'. He doesn't even bother keeping his eyes closed since he can't even see anything in the mandatory lights-off system that starts every midnight and lasts until morning.  
  
The conditioned air thrums with something akin to electricity, alternating between lightly caressing and subtly prickling his skin. To say that he's waiting for something can neither be called an exaggeration nor an expectation. He isn't waiting. He's simply… postponing sleep, even though he's more than ready to fall into a slumber. His eyelids are heavy with the weight of an entire day's worth of activities, an entire year's worth of beatings, and an entire lifetime's worth of stress.   
  
His wounds are wrapped in three layers of bandages and his twisted ankle is encased in a corrective plaster mold. From experience, flimsy things like bandages and plasters aren't enough to deter bullies from injuring him, but Oliver continues on using them anyway, since there's no point in inviting bacteria and parasites to enter through the breaks in his skin and kill him through gangrene or something.  
  
…He isn't waiting.  
  
Nevertheless, Oliver immediately looks up at the person who enters his mostly empty room at three minutes past three in the morning.   
  
He waits for his unlikely visitor to stand in front of him, waits for a derisive comment about how he's definitely waiting since he even went to the trouble of dragging a chair to the middle of the room, placing it directly in front of the door. But there's only a silent hum of their breathing, so Oliver allows himself to let out a sigh tinged with forced casualness and genuine fatigue.   
  
"Don't drip blood all over the room."  
  
It's a belated warning, since there's already a trail of blood that traces Ash Vlastvier's path from the door to the middle of the room, where Oliver is seated on his chair. It's also a useless warning, since Ash Vlastvier lets out a derisive snort that shows just how much he values another person's opinion about bloodstains on the floor.   
  
"I just figured that if The King has time for lowly idiots like you," and Oliver doesn't even bother feigning surprise at the fact that Ash Vlastvier is already informed of The King's little visit, "while he doesn't even bother showing up to pilot-specific meetings that actually matter…"  
  
Oliver starts to say something, a warning maybe, a reminder that they're still within Grand Romania's premises and they shouldn't put it past the government to install surveillance bugs inside dorm rooms of even low-tiered trainees. Words die in his throat as a handful of clothes gets thrown haphazardly to his face—parts of the infamous custom uniform that garners the recognition of belonging to the Grim Reaper himself. It's not readily apparent because all the lights are turned off and stains don't show up as easily against black fabric, but Ash Vlastvier's uniform reeks of blood—the same blood that circulates inside the pilot's veins, the same blood that is still pouring out of the criss-cross slices decorating Ash Vlastvier's pale back.  
  
"…he doesn't bother showing up because he just doesn't want to see his useless son in the mission briefings," Ash Vlastvier concludes with an air of finality, marching towards Oliver's closet as though he's been to this room many times, as though he is the resident occupying this room. Oliver is loath to admit, but that's probably true. As The King mentioned earlier, his promotion to a higher tier isn't based on his merit after all. Everything that has happened to him, good or bad, has always been caused by Ash Vlastvier in one way or the other.  
  
Oliver sighs helplessly as he stands up and dutifully folds the clothes thrown to him, all the while watching Ash Vlastvier raid his closet for something that can fit his taller but slimmer build. He doesn't have the energy to continue scolding the 01 pilot, even though he has plenty of reasons to (attempt to) rebuke the other.  
  
The sound of his lamentation irritates Ash Vlastvier easily enough, and before Oliver can even figure out what's going on, fingers are already wrapped securely on his throat, squeezing with sufficient strength that can stop his breathing. Oliver hears his blood sloshing around inside his temples, smells the sweat blanketing his feverish skin as adrenaline starts coursing his veins alongside oxygen-cells-blood, tastes the intuitive dread that skitters up and down his spine.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Why?  
  
What is Ash Vlastvier asking of him?  
  
Oliver shakes his head, attempts to pry the fingers off his throat so he can suck in some air to alleviate the crushing pain in his lungs. The grip doesn't budge or slide off and Oliver's chest heaves even more with the effort. His vision shakes and dims, like a low-budget recording. Ash Vlastvier leans in close, but even with their abridged distance, Oliver loses sight of the fine details of the other's face—doesn't see the budding pimple dead center on the other's forehead, doesn't see the slight depression on the lower left cheek, doesn't see the bitten-red edge on the lower lip. Despite his blurred eyesight, he can still vividly see the scarlet eyes and silver-tinged hair, the characteristics of a monster born from various experiments in attaining more power.  
  
"Why do you keep on letting people step all over you?" Instead of continuing to choke Oliver until he turns blue, Ash Vlastvier's hands shift to seize a pair of trembling shoulders, utilizing unrestricted amount of power that nearly crushes bones. "Why don't you mind getting defeated? I know you're capable of rejecting!"  
  
The mention of rejection snaps Oliver out of his dazed staring at Ash Vlastvier's face.   
  
"I can't be like you." Oliver isn't strong and he doesn't have anything to make up for the fact that he lacks strength. "I accept things when doing otherwise complicates things."  
  
Ash Vlastvier shrugs on the acceptable set of clothing that he manages to unearth from Oliver's closet. The thin fabrics rapidly absorb the blood from the open cuts and Oliver is almost fascinated to witness spidery flowers bloom crimson against the white backdrop that is his shirt.  
  
"It's an emergency attack—a sneak attack against the headquarters." Ash Vlastvier rolls his eyes at the dumbfounded expression that flickers across Oliver's face. "I'm talking about the CODE 999 earlier, dumbass."  
  
Against all logic, Oliver presses for more details. "From what country—who are the pilots?—no wait, what SPHEREs did they use?—no that's not it either, did you kill them?"  
  
"…two units from the United Nation of Nobility," Ash Vlastvier replies after a moment, seemingly taken aback by the amount of interest Oliver is displaying, "I didn't bother to remember their SPHEREs or their names. They managed to escape though, with their tails wagging between their legs."  
  
So the wounds in Ash Vlastvier's back aren't because of the emergency mission, but are rather due to the ritualistic punishment handed down to pilots who don't fulfill their missions up to the higher-ups' standards. And judging from the fact that Ash Vlastvier is knowledgeable about his encounter with The King, it's also entirely possible a few more whip counts were added because of Oliver's reply to the invitation to basically fleeing from the headquarters.  
  
Oliver feels his heart rate slowing down from its temporary increase. It's illogical to feel any worry or anxiety over someone who's already present in front of his eyes, alive and still unfairly strong despite undergoing a mission and sporting wounds all over his body. It's ridiculous to waste any brain cells thinking about what would happen if the attackers succeeded in stealth-bombing the headquarters, because Grand Romania's main tower is still proudly standing above the surrounding marsh-like earth. It's all very irrational to be burdened with uneasiness when the person in front of him is already frowning in dissatisfaction with their close proximity.  
  
"I hate you," Oliver whispers instead of enunciating the words that bump and crash against each other inside his head, "I really, truly hate you."  
  
And it's true, because there's a plethora of reasons why Ash Vlastvier is a being who deserves abhorrence, because there's no other explanation for the severe headache that plagues him whenever he thinks of the other teen, because there's no other fitting hypothesis that can explain the spike in his blood pressure whenever the other is within hearing range.  
  
There's nothing left to explain the way Ash Vlastvier holds him by his shoulders again, at arms' length.  
  
"The feeling is completely mutual," Ash Vlastvier reaffirms, ascertains that nothing has changed between them, since earlier today, since almost two months ago, since five years ago—even though today is the first instance Ash Vlastvier ventured to Oliver's room, the first time Ash Vlastvier volunteered information about his missions to anyone outside of the mission briefing meetings, the first occasion of Oliver finally articulating what he really feels, "because I hate useless, pathetic cowards like you."  
  
Oliver sighs in relief, smiles the tiniest bit, because hatred is the bridge connecting the two of them, the emotion grounding Oliver to the harsh reality of being a weak foreigner who doesn't have anything to his name, the only remaining constant in his life.  
  
"I hate you," he repeats, because it's a statement that bears repeating.  
  
Ash Vlastvier finally releases his hold the shoulders that have long stopped shaking, but he doesn't take a step back to widen the gap between the two of them.   
  
And it doesn't make sense for his heart to skip a couple of beats when the word 'hate' echoes and tumbles around his mind, doesn't make sense because he's still doing this even though he already said—  
  
•  
  
The end is near.  
  
There are no mandatory-attendance meetings issued for the entire Grand Romania workforce, no nationwide broadcasts for everyone to see, no staged speeches for the whole world to witness. Grand Romania's government-owned news stations are uncharacteristically quiet, yet even so, Oliver understands that the end is near.  
  
The world is changing, crumbling, bit by bit into irreconcilable pieces.   
  
The process of decay starts with the unforeseen fall of Crew Charroue and his OPHAN to the hands of the foreboding sky-high Pillar of Despair. Grand Romania barely manages to contain its excitement at the prospect of Central Tower losing one of its most powerful pawns. Crew Charroue is the enemy of quite a number of people—politicians, pilots or plebeians, it doesn't matter—due to his terrifyingly effective campaign during his much-younger years as The Slayer of any and all opposing forces. At the same time, Crew Charroue is admired by the entire world, the sort of admiration that doesn't limit itself to only those who see him outside of his SPHERE—due to his amazingly powerful charming nature. People love him, hate him, sometimes both at once, which is plenty of reason enough to explain the surge of tears and disappointment at the news of his demise.  
  
It's a sobering experience, since it effectually portrays the truth that power doesn't last forever. Nobody is invincible, not even the frightening Slayer; that's why Grand Romania is only too happy to continue investing time, money and effort into grooming a well-disciplined and insurmountable battle force.  
  
The compressed-and-recycled air is heavy and oppressive, hanging around his shoulders like huge metal clamps. Oliver appreciates the silence, but there's something sinister that weaves in and out of the lulls of noiselessness.   
  
Soon enough, the uncanny silence breaks; a female classmate approaches him and matches his light footsteps, accompanying him on his longwinded walk back to his quarters. Oliver recognizes her, vaguely, from the classes that he mostly missed because of his trips to the infirmary, from the bullying sessions that are the driving force behind his confinement in the medical wing of the headquarters. There's no scent of loathing wafting around her though, so it's unlikely that she's walking with him to steer his path to lead him to a place where he will get beaten up.  
  
Oliver places a hand over the biometrics-enabled doorknob. He half-turns to regard his classmate who is wordlessly standing behind him. He's not quite sure how to handle people who don't display outright animosity towards him. He faintly wonders if it's proper to just leave her outside his room, since inviting her inside breaches some sort of understanding he's established with himself.  
  
He is spared the trouble of thinking of what to say though, for his female classmate breaks the silence willingly, confidently. "Will you be my boyfriend?"  
  
Oliver feels his mouth go dry. Of course, a love confession is supposedly a valid reason for following someone back to his residential quarters, but the person in front of him doesn't love him, that much he's sure of. He doesn't love her too, because she's one of those girls who prefer to be far away from where the bullying is happening, who prefer to taunt and chortle at him from behind a layer of other trainees. He doesn't even know her name, though he's certain that she knows of his.  
  
"It's because I'm getting the special promotion, isn't it?"  
  
From the way her cheeks flush pink and her eyebrows draw together in indignation, Oliver is inclined to think that it's a bulls-eye.  
  
"Of course it's because of your special promotion," a gruff voice slices through the thick air and the confession-that's-not-really-a-confession, "there's just no way chicks will dig you otherwise."  
  
His classmate's pink cheeks blush an even deeper color and Oliver thinks that that's what love looks like: overwhelmingly foolish and utterly obvious and illogically empowering. The sight of her love-struck schoolgirl antics only cements Oliver's belief that Ash Vlastvier really drives people crazy.  
  
"You have impeccable timing as usual," Oliver mutters in a tone that relates how he doesn't think it's dignified for Ash Vlastvier to start keeping tabs on him. A side-glance to his classmate tells him that he can be rude to the 01 pilot all he wants and she won't even notice, since she's so entranced by Ash Vlastvier's presence.   
  
Apparently her enchanted trance also extends to her self-preservation, as she also fails to notice the way her heart is already, quite literally, pierced by Ash Vlastvier.  
  
…That's apparently the worth of a life: one flick of sword-sharp hands. She crumples to the ground right in front of Oliver's door, bleeding profusely from the hole on her heart. Oliver thinks that it's bothersome to clean human-sized trash, especially since it's now bodily blocking his dorm door. Explaining this to the higher-ups will also be troublesome.   
  
"There's no point in killing a girl who didn't do anything wrong aside from having ridiculous affections," Oliver is aware that relaying words of complaint is already useless at this point. But the fact that there's already a corpse waiting to be cleaned up doesn't mean that Oliver's words are false. "It's true that she's greatly misled by the prospect of my accelerated promotion, but—"  
  
"…I'm not in a good mood," words of warning sound alien when they come from Ash Vlastvier, "so I suggest that you shut the fuck up."  
  
Oliver's knee-jerk reaction is to follow the other pilot's suggestion, and that's when he notices the mission folders in Ash Vlastvier's other, not-bloody hand. Oliver forgets to breathe, the subsequent lack of oxygen blurring his mind and eyesight.   
  
The end is near.  
  
Grand Romania is probably spurred on by the way Central Tower is starting to lose its grip on the number one country position. Oliver isn't courageous by any means, that's why he thinks that it's better to wait for more Central Tower pilots to fall before they launch a decisive attack, just so their victory is ensured. But judging from the way Ash Vlastvier's left arm is covered in bandages, inferring from the way Ash Vlastvier's frown is deep-set on his face, surmising from the way Ash Vlastvier is gripping the thick mission folders—Grand Romania is already raring to go against the most powerful country.   
  
…The end is near.  
  
"In two months, in November, they're sending me against Central Tower's 01," Ash Vlastvier offers the information after two minutes of tense silence. Oliver doesn't reach out for the mission folders that are off-limits to a mere trainee like him, even though the curiosity and the need to know are gnawing at his stomach.  
  
…Central Tower's 01 pilot—isn't that Rei? Aside from the Slayer, there's one other Central Tower pilot whose name is well-known even to the civilians underground. Rei rarely fights against weaker opponents, against pilots that aren't ranked within the top three, but when he does get involved in a fight…  
  
Oliver feels his throat tighten.  
  
"You should be excited for the fight, no?" Ash Vlastvier walks past him, clearly not interested in helping clean the mess he made, flippantly talking about a battle that only has one outcome as though it's no big deal, "…after all, even this country's ambitious engineers only project a 9% chance of survival for me."  
  
Ash Vlastvier is already the strongest person in this country.   
  
But Grand Romania wants to pit him against the strongest monster of the strongest country.   
  
There's no doubt in Oliver's mind that the bandages in Ash Vlastvier's arm are covering needle entry points for whatever drugs they want to test on him, for whatever experiments they need to perform on him. There's also no doubt that Rei will completely annihilate Ash Vlastvier alongside his AETHER once the two of them face each other. There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will end up as part of Rei's perfect statistics of victory that always entail absolute destruction.  
  
There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will perish.  
  
In two months, Ash Vlastvier will die in Rei's hands.  
  
"…I'm looking forward to it," Oliver agrees numbly, but irrationally, his mind is a suffocating blank.  
  
•  
  
Oliver writes 'October 02 of AC 686' on the top line of his data logbook, before taking a sip from his smoldering-hot cup of coffee. The burst of caffeine awakens and energizes his much-frazzled nerves. He adds a bite of some hastily-made tuna sandwich to his breakfast meal of-sorts; he actually isn't sure if it's appropriate to consider it a breakfast meal, since his sense of time has completely melted and decayed while he's inside his little fortress.  
  
Glass windows are covered with thick noise-blocking, light-absorbing curtains; the one door to his room is barricaded with his unmade bed. He hasn't stepped out of his dorm room in a week, not even to grab a bite from the cafeteria, not even to attend the pilot training lessons, not even to appear in front of the Trainee Promotion Committee to defend his stance of rejecting his mid-year promotion to the next tier. He doesn't plan to set a foot out of his room until November and he took great pains in order to arrange for his confinement here.   
  
His back still burns whenever he leans against his chair or whenever his clothes shift against his charred flesh. It's a risky gamble in order to bully the doctors into giving him a long sick leave; high risks accompany higher gains. His burnt back also serves to deter him from sleeping and consequently forcing him to stay awake and do something. Oliver likes to think of it as a win-win situation, even though he knows he's merely fooling himself.  
  
In any case, he's now quite sure that Ash Vlastvier is right to call him a masochist.  
  
***  
  
'October 10 of AC 686' is scribbled hastily on a new data logbook—the old one is both too worn-down and crumpled for any more data to make sense. There's a cup of stale coffee beside the logbook; the half-finished sandwich beside it is at least a day old. The study desk is filled with notebooks in varying states of shabbiness, pens and markers of different colors scattered around in an organized chaos.   
  
There's a small, blinking locking device attached to the door; the bed that once acted as a barricade against unwanted visitors is now cushion-less and placed directly beside the study desk, already housing all three computers that Oliver owns. Underneath the bed lies a forest of intertwined wires and power adapters, kept cool by a ventilator attached to the metal frame of the bed.   
  
All of Oliver's belongings that aren't paper or electronics or project-related are shoved to the far-left side of the room, where his closet is located. Oliver rarely ventures to that side of his room, since he is almost-stuck to being cross-seated on the floor in front of his bare bed, eyes glued to his computer screens.   
  
Computer 1 is the personal computer that houses his human voice program; it's now relegated into being the data-recording computer since he's a bit paranoid in retaining his data in both soft and hard copies. Computer 2 is a bulkier, more powerful computer where his current project software is running algorithms and computations non-stop, a stream of equations and numbers filling its screen. Computer 3 is dedicated to capturing feeds from the security cameras installed all over headquarters; he's not brave enough to hack into all the security cameras—he simply keeps track of the important places: like the spot right outside his room, the computer laboratory that he frequents, his assigned training classroom, the launch hangar, a certain room and the place right outside Ash Vlastvier's room.  
  
He disables the clock display on all his computers; he merely keeps the date tracker. He's working towards a deadline, an important deadline, so any time aside from that deadline is meaningless to him.  
  
***  
  
'October 14 of AC 686' is written with the grace of a delinquent toddler, the handwriting barely legible as Oliver rubs his eyes with a free hand, stress-hunger-fatigue-anxiety rolling and stretching and strangling him with each breath he makes. The air inside his room smells like sweat flavored with desperation and he makes an effort to trudge to his closet and change clothes.   
  
He instantly regrets the action, since approaching his closet means seeing the neatly-folded uniform that rests on top of his clothes. It's a uniform that he knows won't fit him, an all-black color that seems almost breathtaking once worn by its owner. Oliver takes another shuddering breath and changes his clothes, bypassing the too-skinny outfit and reaching for a pair of clothes that is exactly the same as the one he's discarding.  
  
Images and numbers dance across his computer screens and Oliver thinks that he wants everything to work out. He grimaces when he carelessly puts on his flimsy shirt, his back protesting with the rough contact of textile against tender, healing skin. His thin bed-cushion is now covered with stacks of print-outs, but it's starting to look appealing to his sleep-deprived mind. Another quick glance to the all-black uniform immediately sobers him up though, and Oliver utters a curse as he realizes (once again) that he really is a hopeless, pathetic person.  
  
***  
  
'October 22 of AC 686' is displayed on the lower right edge of the video feed from camera 228C-13F. Oliver faintly hears voices from the live feed, loud and grating complaints about the back-breaking training lesson for today, followed by an abundance of gossip topics that range from the mundane to the brain-melting. His ears perk up a little when he catches mention of his name, followed by speculations about his rejected promotion and his sudden medical absence, even though nobody from their class has accosted him lately.  
  
It's harmless, pointless gossip, but Oliver momentarily panics. He's been very careful in his steps and actions, but there's always a chance that even the most perfect plans go awry. He only releases the breath he doesn't know he's holding when the classmates in the monitor change their topic to so-and-so's crush on their current trainer.   
  
Oliver doesn't quite understand why Grand Romania is eager to send Ash Vlastvier to his certain demise, but judging from the way they planned this mission since the beginning of the year, it's entirely possible that this is really meant to be a suicide mission. Rei, Crew Charroue and Ash Vlastvier are the only three pilots who possess the one hundred percent mission completion rate; with Crew Charroue out of the picture, it's now a clear match between the two 01 pilots of the strongest and weakest country. Grand Romania is most likely planning for Ash Vlastvier's defeat to drag Rei down with him. And judging from their insistence for the battle to take place near the Central Tower Headquarters, Ash Vlastvier's defeat will most probably trigger a self-destruct command on AETHER, which in turn can start a chain reaction of explosions that can destroy the enemy's headquarters.  
  
He forgets how to breathe for a few minutes, momentarily forgetting how to stay alive. He stands up shakily after he regains his breathing rhythm, drinks the bland-tasting coffee and finishes a sandwich in just one bite. He doesn't have time to laze around or think about strategies, because he doesn't have any time left.  
  
***  
  
'October 29 of AC 686' is Davy Black's birthday. The date flashes on the computer screens for a brief moment. As an heir to the Grand Romania's royal family and as a son of The King, Davy Black is surrounded by Very Important People and is watched by Not So Important Commoners. Nevertheless, social standing doesn't quite matter as people from all walks of life are invited, or mandated rather, to attend the celebration party for the young pilot.  
  
The date flashes again on the computer screens, but there's nobody inside the stuffy room to disable the notifications.  
  
Computer 3's screen displays the feed from camera 194X-92F: a scuffle of movement as a person wearing a suspicious black hood darts around the launch hangar.  
  
***  
  
Oliver scribbles 'October 31 of AC 686' on the final page of his final notebook, moments before the date notification for 'November 1' appears on his computer screens. His freshly-bandaged back still stings, but it's numb and dull compared to the insistent throbbing of his chest. His room is already rearranged to what it looked like before the month of October arrived.  
  
Computer 1 is back to being the voice software database, Computer 2 is wrapped with bloodstained bandages, while Computer 3 is unplugged from the power socket.   
  
"I'm finally done," Oliver says his first words for the month.  
  
[...You're really hopeless.]  
  
And Oliver is fine with that.  
  
•  
  
Select security cameras are now disabled; that's why Oliver is able to make his way out of the Main Assembly Hall without catching the attention of the guards on duty.   
  
Every single Grand Romania citizen is riveted to their screens, where one of the government's representatives is rattling out some facts and statistics about how AETHER is improved and remodeled in order to render the previously-collected data unusable. The citizens—whether they hail from the underground cities or from the towering above-ground headquarters—are all required to bear witness to another milestone in Grand Romania's glorious history. There's no doubt that military personnel and teenage pilots from the other countries are watching the highly-publicized match through their own illegal channels, because this is an important moment in determining whether Central Tower is still powerful enough to defend its honor.  
  
The entire world is focused on the high-profile mission, so Oliver takes the chance to slip out unnoticed. He hopes against hope that his plan will proceed smoothly. They say that the first step is usually the hardest, though he is painfully aware that that's not true at all. Every single step in his plan, in his project, is extremely difficult, with great risks and severe punishments awaiting his failure. The Grand Romania government is unusually fond of mandatory broadcasts; he doesn't even want to ponder about his penalty if he's caught shirking on his duty as a citizen to watch the proceedings.  
  
With little time to spare, he manages to reach his initial destination: the computer laboratory that houses high-level computers that are supposedly off-limits to mere low-tier trainees like him.   
  
He disables the blinking security device attached to the front table, before sliding its desk drawers open. The three computers he prepared the day before are there waiting for him: computers 1 and 3 both encased in their respective laptop boxes; computer 2 wrapped in bloodstained bandages and is further encased in an airtight container.   
  
Methodologically, he sets up computers 1 and 3 underneath the front table, kneeling against the cold, hard floor so that nobody can even catch a glance of his overgrown brown hair or the black wires sticking out. He activates a separate voice recognition software on the first computer and enables its wide-range signal recognition. Computer 3 boots up to a dedicated server of the program he spent an entire month creating from scratch. He makes sure that there are no bugs before he connects the two computers together, before connecting the two computers to the local network within the computer lab. There's a nearly inaudible beep that signifies an established connection and that's when Oliver forgets to breathe again.  
  
He can't see the broadcast from here, but he thinks that it's just about time that Ash Vlastvier is approaching enemy territory.   
  
Oliver regains his bearings and he almost trips as he hastens to the nearest lab computer. He opens it by pushing the power button a little too forcefully, but that little blunder doesn't matter because the start-up system is being overridden by the new software he created on Computer 3, and it only takes a minute before all fifty computers inside the laboratory are open and running the requested sequences by his program. His biggest hurdle in this project is getting a computer powerful enough to be on par with a supercomputer, but distributing the burden amongst many computers in a lightning-fast network can compensate for the lack of a supercomputer of his own.  
  
…In any case, he's done with the first phase here.  
  
***  
  
His next stop is quite tricky; reaching the top floor without getting caught by roaming military personnel and by the surveillance cameras is nothing short of impossible. The tiny, imperceptible electronic bug that he attaches to the elevator panel overrides the access codes needed to reach the 92nd floor. He sneaks into the dimly-lit launch hangar with only his Computer 2 in his hands, still wrapped in preserved bloodstained bandages. Bringing very little as he moves around is ideal for someone as clumsy and feeble as him.  
  
Nonetheless, he's able to breathe a little easier once he manages to finish attaching a couple of untraceable palm-sized devices to certain parts of the new launch hangar. He doesn't have much time to spare, since there's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier's mission against Rei is already starting.  
  
True to his suspicions and proven by the security feeds he managed to get and extract from the staff milling in and out of the launch hangars for the past couple of weeks: Grand Romania indeed plans to activate a self-destruct command on AETHER's systems the moment Rei is posed to deliver the finishing blow. AETHER's self-destruct system is configured to explode and scatter a certain wavelength that's calculated to affect the surrounding architecture, effectively bringing about the destruction of Central Tower from one sacrificed knight.  
  
…Oliver grits his teeth as he realizes that the most important part of his plan isn't in the new launch hangar as he predicted. Of course, his prediction has a margin of error of 50%, so he really doesn't have a right to be surprised. His prediction is based on a 50-50 probability of the device getting transferred to the old launch hangar that is now remodeled to a military research pod. He does have enough time allotted to rush downstairs to the near-ground level, but his irritation is more focused on the fact that he didn't manage to be absolutely certain about his data. It's still acceptable to commit mistakes now, but once he moves forward in his plan, there's absolutely no room for error.  
  
He keeps his head bowed down painfully low as he makes a beeline to return to the elevator, slightly paranoid that one of the remaining enabled cameras will somehow catch a glimpse of his face. Messing around with military property is definitely punishable by death, and he can't afford to die yet, not when his project is only half-way done, not when he's still not even sure why he's pushing forward with his project anyway.  
  
***  
  
It doesn't sound appealing when he looks at it that way: Electronic Domination Program. Nevertheless, those words are the ones that appear once he boots up his Computer 2, the cool laptop resting on his crossed legs.   
  
The floors he's seating on is blanketed by a thin layer of dust despite getting meticulously cleaned and surveyed by cleaner robots that don't possess the impatience and laziness of human cleaners. His legs are covered by his pants though the metal floors don't come across any difficulty in sharing the freezing temperature via breaching the thin fabric of his government-issued clothing. He stifles a sneeze and a shiver that threatens to overwhelm his senses and snatch away his concentration. Headquarters is allegedly completely unaffected by the moody weather changes outside, but Oliver can easily feel the cool winter winds seeping inside the microscopic cracks in the foundation and walls.   
  
He supposes that maybe the cooler temperature is also caused by the proximity to the ground level, where the atmospheric effects are more evident. After all, the impregnable fortress, Castles of Nevermore, is simply a few kilometers away. That eerie-looking castle of absolute defense looks foreboding and is almost-always almost-completely covered with a thick mist not commonly found in the earth of today. Maybe having that creepy castle nearby is contributing to the chill that crawls up and down Oliver's spine.  
  
Following a made-up beat, Oliver taps his fingers against the dusty floor, forcing impatience away from his thoughts. Computer 2's connection is running a little slow, even with hijacked bandwidth capabilities of all the processors inside the computer lab. It's still within acceptable performance values though; everything just feels irritatingly slower and bumpier now that he's waiting for the visuals of the hacked video feeds to load.  
  
His breath catches when he finally sees the events unfolding from thousands of kilometers away: sees Rei's SERAPH perform a godly pirouette that perfectly avoids all the missiles launched at him—watches AETHER execute a series of cartwheels that slice the distance separating the two giant SPHEREs and land a non-critical blow against SERAPH's outstretched right wing—witnesses Ash Vlastvier be so utterly average and harmlessly ordinary in the face of someone with even whiter hair and even crazier attacks.  
  
The interface of his prototype program blinks incessantly in order to remind him of the order of things he needs to present in order to grant him complete access to the military files and to the controls of every single artillery and SPHERE stored inside Grand Romania's territory. He takes out a sheet of clear plastic-like paper from between his laptop's monitor and keyboard; in it is a copy of The King's handprint, ten fingerprints blown up and fixed to minimize blurriness. He doesn't really need to input the other biometric data he has with him, but he supposes that it doesn't hurt to be more paranoid about these types of things. He clicks the onscreen option to include more identification samples, before shoving one end of the bloodstained bandages for sample, fingerprint and DNA identification.  
  
His Electronic Domination Program prototype is still having a hard time not crashing every thirty minutes, but he has nothing else with him now. His software's interface fades away almost completely into the background, as his foremost display is the actual government main page portal. Controlling Grand Romania's moves will be extremely easy now, a few budget allocation changes here and there, followed by a rejection of the purchase for more raw materials from the underground (vagabond) dealers.  
  
But that's not what he's here for.  
  
He calculates the distance between Headquarters and the magma-mountains swallowing the giant footsteps of AETHER and SERAPH. It will take ten minutes to reach that place, even with a supersonic missile.  
  
Oliver takes a deep breath and—  
  
***  
  
It's flying.  
  
…He's flying.  
  
—They're flying.  
  
***  
  
Transparent, strengthened glass screens enclose the cockpit area of Central Tower's ace SPHERE. A confident handicap offering from Central Tower's best pilot, as though letting opponents and enemy countries observe the way fingers glide smoothly over keyboard controls is tantamount to barely anything at all. The shamelessly amused grin is permanently etched on Rei's face as he continues commanding his unit to bombard AETHER with well-timed blows and homing missiles.   
  
It's flying.  
  
Like the predatory hawks preserved in the underground zoological laboratories, it circles around the area like a ravenous beast eyeing its plump prey.  
  
Buried deep within abnormally-high security levels and labels of confidential documents, is the information that links Grand Romania with the discovery of its own, non-stolen, SPHERE blueprint. To Oliver's knowledge, there are only six blueprints available in the entire world; it seems that the countries have really been keeping information from fellow countries and from its own citizens. International politics don't really interest him, but the blueprint he managed to catch a glimpse of is a transformation blueprint, undoubtedly an important military resource. It's just a couple of pages filled with straight lines and long numbers, but it's something that made Grand Romania well-known in the entire world for its sudden ascent into a major superpower.   
  
It's just a few pages of data, a couple of megabytes' worth of information, but it's the object fueling Oliver's plan now.  
  
…It's flying.  
  
The result of his month-long effort is currently encircling the atmospheric zone directly above the two battling SPHEREs, the distance and the device's size calculated to favor stealth and mobility. None of the SPHERE sensors and alarm systems resounds once the device starts flying low enough to be spotted easily.   
  
AETHER's right arm's armor is already completely stripped from the machine's mainframe, exposing the cables and super-alloys intertwined underneath. Ash Vlastvier appears like an average person now, trapped inside the all-black unit's broken armors and shredded bullets. The world's eyes are focused on this mission, spy cameras from around the globe hovering from a safe distance, recording every single thing that happens in the fight. Oliver doesn't doubt for a moment that Grand Romania isn't showing this mission real-time, since they need time to edit the footage to suit their agenda.  
  
There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier is losing completely against Rei.  
  
—It's really flying.  
  
SERAPH's wings stretch out like a yawning phoenix, shimmering in silver and gold underneath the watchful eyes of the brittle world. The air hums with repressed power, crackling like a summer thunderstorm about to ignite a forest fire that will engulf the world whole. The clouds start to grumble and whine, weather changes that react to the sheer amount of energy gathering around SERAPH's wings.  
  
SERAPH is about to launch an attack, its signature attack, and there's always been a one hundred percent casualty rate for the unfortunate people who have been faced with that attack.  
  
Oliver catches his breath as the supersonic flight's effects grip him by his neck and his gut.  
  
There's no doubt that—  
  
***  
  
He's flying.  
  
Oliver isn't even sure of the exact order of events.  
  
He just knows that he did prepare a thousand micro-bombs before he arrived in this desolate, magma-seething place that is the border between the strongest and weakest country. He just knows that he did load those micro-bombs to the carriage pad of the supersonic jet plane he hightailed from the military research pod. He just knows that he did double over and coughed his guts out as soon as he started performing synchronization with the jet plane.  
  
…He's flying.  
  
The Electronic Domination Program he developed isn't perfect, but it's extremely useful for situations like the one he's currently in.  
  
With a synchronization rate as dead-last as his, there's no way he can coax a huge, complicated lump of metal, alloys and gunpowder into following his thoughts. With a physical and genetic make-up as foreign as his, there's absolutely no way he can remove the restrictions and avail permission to head out of the headquarters. With someone as weak as him, there's just no way he can be of any help to the loss that Ash Vlastvier is trapped in.  
  
With help from his newly developed software though, he is able to quickly and efficiently command the robots standing guard in the launch hangar into following the steps in his carefully constructed plan. He is also able to override security settings regarding the unlocking of the artillery, as well as obtaining access to the launching sequence codes. Someone as pathetic as him is now suddenly capable of doing things others cannot, just because he spent enough time in front of his computer, just because he suddenly can't visualize a world that is devoid of the tormentor he has longed wished to disappear.  
  
—He's really flying.  
  
Oliver's eyes focus on the readings of his jet plane's oxygen and atmospheric pressure levels, as he inputs the command code necessary for his jet plane to descend from its hiding place in the upper stratosphere, and descend to the magma-hot ground.  
  
***  
  
They're flying.  
  
Micro-bombs escape from their tiny holding spaces, rolling out of the carriage pad and scattering into the throat-burning atmosphere. Grand Romania developed them to unleash a wide-range smokescreen that can effectively disable both particle-based and wavelength-based way of visual tracking; Oliver's additional software imprint into them commands the barely-visible bombs to release a specific set of interference waves that can cripple data transfer between the spy cameras here and their recipients.   
  
Oliver is strapped to the jet plane's pilot seat, but his eyes are focused on the computer screen on his lap rather than the smoke-covered surroundings shown in his front display screens. His fingers are already partly numb, since it's been a few hours since he has started typing non-stop. He knows he can't stop though, because even pausing for a second while entering coordinates and command lines can easily cost him not only his own life, but also Ash Vlastvier's. It's a foreign feeling: having someone's life resting on one's shoulders, no matter how one-sided the commitment is.  
  
…They're flying.  
  
Ultimately though, the opponent is Central Tower's number one pilot equipped with its strongest SPHERE.  
  
SERAPH is already diverting a portion of its energy into dispersing the heavy smoke settling uncomfortably in the surroundings; there's a tell-tale glow of energy pulsing around SERAPH's outstretched wings.  
  
Oliver is rarely confident in things that are linked to his existence. Nevertheless, he believes in the hours of sleep he lost in favor of tinkering around the software he developed, he believes that there's no way his effort in keeping someone else alive will be in vain. He opens another command line window in his laptop, quickly typing strings of numbers, coordinates and equations that all lead to the future of SPHERE function ceasing momentarily.  
  
The future that he's aiming for falls into his hands the moment he hits the 'Enter' key on his keyboard. The two gigantic machines grappling for victory both obediently stutter to a halt, and Oliver takes that chance to establish a bridge between his jet plane's now-empty carriage pad and AETHER's cockpit. His laptop's command line is then filled with instructions on how to extract the cockpit from the ruined SPHERE without jostling the possibly-injured pilot inside. Oliver suppresses the urge to leave his seat and personally make sure that the connecting cables don't coil around the cockpit too roughly—it's a peculiar worry… probably just an odd delusion concocted by his oxygen-deprived mind.  
  
Extraction process is at seventy-nine percent and Oliver snatches a close-up glance of SERAPH and its glass-fragile appearance that belies its terrifying strength. His gaze immediately gravitates to the silver hair that is similar to the color that Ash Vlastvier possesses now. Oliver should be the only one who can distinctly recognize shapes and movement amidst the smokescreen he set up, but Rei is staring straight at him, as though his gray eyes can easily eliminate the barriers imposed on them. Oliver shivers despite himself, his cowardice crawling up his legs and arms, his human instinct screaming at him to hurry up and leave this dangerous place.  
  
Oliver is the one in-charge of the situation, just as he's the one who unhesitatingly fires a round of close-contact missiles towards SERAPH, but he's also the one who feels like his life is in grave danger. He presses the bridge ejection button a tad too forcefully once the extraction process hits the one hundred percent completion status. He doesn't spare a glance back to the smoke-filled environment he's running away from, because he's sure that he'll lose his mind if he links gazes with that monstrous Rei once again.  
  
—They're really flying.  
  
The two most unlikely duo—the epitome of strength and the embodiment of weakness—are flying away from the mission that the entire world wants to witness from beginning to end—together.  
  
•  
  
The pendulum that swings to the beat of Oliver's miserable life is now repaired, now devoid of any unexplainable accelerations, now free of all unforeseen troughs.   
  
Grand Romania continues to pine for the throne that belongs to the world's most powerful organization, disregarding any irrelevant things like Ash Vlastvier ridiculously making it back to the headquarters even though his SPHERE is now crushed into pieces after Rei's childish tantrum at losing his prey. Recruitment of aspiring pilots proceeds at an alarming pace, probably because the government is eager to fill the positions left behind by the trainees who unfortunately stumble upon the landmine filled with Ash Vlastvier's berserk buttons. Proposed plans for building another tower beside the current headquarters are filling the gossip time of trainees and staff members milling around the hallways that somehow feel a little more cramped lately.  
  
Everything falls back to the normal flow of time, events locking into each other as a concept of inevitability, everyone moves towards the same path as before.  
  
Oliver remembers re-watching the footage that Grand Romania propagated across the country's television screens: Ash Vlastvier's complete and utter defeat somehow morphs into a stalemate with Rei; AETHER's absolute annihilation in SERAPH's hands somehow transforms into a heroic sacrifice in order to save a human's life. The broadcast is filtered by bias and ambition, but Oliver is somewhat okay with it, since he's not really looking forward to having his involvement with the supposed-to-be-suicide-mission and with Ash Vlastvier's unexpected return to be revealed to anyone else.  
  
He's not even sure if Ash Vlastvier is aware that he's the one behind that out-of-character rescue; Oliver is fine with the uncertainty hanging over his head, because he doesn't have any acceptable means of confirming the truth.  
  
The December winds are sharper, Oliver observes. He presses his left ear against the strengthened glass windows separating the empty training room from the outside air. Uncoordinated pounding resumes from the other side of the glass, making him wonder if the irritable outside atmosphere is really meant to be treated as something untouchable, as something to be wary of. He's still reeling from his sudden desire to go out and sacrifice himself in order to save someone he wants gone; he's still teeming with the desire to do something that can make him temporarily forget that he's utterly useless.  
  
Training rooms found in the lower floors lack windows that can chill the optimism and drive of trainees who want to go out of the headquarters aboard SPHEREs. The training room Oliver is occupying at the moment is opened by the electronic signals emitted from his laptop, still equipped with the Electronic Domination Program. This is Oliver's new fortress, a place where he can sigh and contemplate his actions in peace.  
  
He hasn't seen Ash Vlastvier since that day when he dumped the jet plane on the docking hangar, released the controls and left Ash Vlastvier with his untreated wounds to make it appear as though Ash Vlastvier reached Grand Romania by his own perseverance.   
  
That might explain why he's actually making an effort to stay away from potential bullies—he's inexplicably waiting for Ash Vlastvier to show up and he never appears once he's already in the infirmary.   
  
Oliver stifles a snort at that thought.  
  
He's growing sick, he supposes, with thoughts of Ash Vlastvier. He's becoming affected by the other man's presence and it's something that he doesn't want to happen.  
  
He doesn't want it to ever happen.  
  
He doesn't—  
  
"—I'll give you superiority."  
  
—Isn't it unfortunate indeed?  
  
"…What are you talking about?" Oliver asks after a few heartbeats, his voice pinched with a mixture of worry and relief. It's completely absurd, to feel the slightest twinge of relief at the sight of Ash Vlastvier looking the same as always: mean-faced, tight-lipped, stiff-backed.   
  
"As payment," Ash Vlastvier drawls the words out in slow syllables, tone dyeing the words tar with venom, "for your daring rescue."  
  
"I just didn't want you to—"  
  
—To what? Oliver doesn't even fully understand his own actions, so he has no business justifying himself to the other teen. Oliver doesn't even comprehend why his logical reasoning can't quite match his unexpected actions. Oliver's pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy breathing the same air as the other, but he still didn't want Ash Vlastvier to—?  
  
"Shove it." Ash Vlastvier enters a code at the security device attached near the doorway; the device's lights change from solid green to flashing red. Ebony black walls descend to cover the view from outside, effectively sealing the room. The overhead lights' brightness remain the same, but the surrounding darkness gives off the feeling of decreased luminosity. It's a peculiar feeling: to be physically enclosed in so much dimness. "I have no interest in your reasoning."  
  
"…I know."   
  
"—you know?" Ash Vlastvier looks like he bit off his tongue or something equally unpleasant. "You, of all the idiotic people, know?!"  
  
"That's right." Oliver doesn't think he's right, but what else can he say? "I know you don't care for my reasons. But I want you to know that I only did that because—"  
  
…Because what?  
  
Oliver bites his lip, creating an awkward silence that chafes against his exposed skin. He isn't any closer to understanding his own mind than a few minutes ago, so there's no reason in continuing to bring up his inexplicable actions. Shouldn't he be more worried about committing a crime against the country anyway? He's quite certain that there's a lofty punishment awaiting people who foolishly attempt to steal military resources for personal usage. Shouldn't he be more concerned about his willingness to spend a month without much sleep for the sake of a person who doesn't even rank within the bounds of humanity?  
  
"…Because this world will collapse if you disappear." Oliver is somewhat loathe to be a part of a country that will snowball into failure once its ace pilot is kicked out of the picture, but it's the truth. Grand Romania officials may be blind to the sheer importance of Ash Vlastvier's presence to the success of their military campaigns, but Oliver can see it clearly: the outstretched lines that radiate out of Ash Vlastvier's present, lines of fate that extend long into the unknown future. "That's why I saved you from SERAPH."  
  
"You're using such heroic words, aren't you?" Ash Vlastvier's lips twist into something ugly, a visible sign of disdain and scorn. His too-pale skin appears even paler under the overhead lights, surrounded by so much blackness, and it gives Oliver a headache trying to look at the other directly. Oliver averts his eyes from the sight of Ash Vlastvier looking as cool as a block of ice even though he's clearly seething already. "Aren't you being too conceited, trainee?"  
  
Ash Vlastvier told him, many weeks ago, that he is capable of rejection.  
  
"I was merely rejecting an outcome that I disliked." Oliver blurts out in a rush of tangled words that somehow sounded smoother than he anticipated. He's not very sure why, but it's important that Ash Vlastvier understands that there's nothing else to talk about—he simply acted on a sheer whim, isn't that fine already? "That's all there is to it."  
  
Frustration looks fascinating layered atop Ash Vlastvier's face—it's one of the few expressions that bring a humane sparkle to those death-cold crimson irises. For a fleeting moment, Oliver feels an immense relief wash over him.   
  
He isn't wrong to save Ash Vlastvier. He isn't wrong to charge in the middle of a fight between two titans. He isn't wrong to commit a huge, risky gamble that could have gotten him killed.   
  
He isn't wrong.  
  
"You hate me." Ash Vlastvier takes slow, confident steps towards him. Oliver backs away from the approaching pilot, retreats until his back meets with a cool glass window. "But you want my superiority, my standing—everything I have."  
  
Oliver doesn't. Not really. But he doesn't have the courage to admit that he dislikes the way Ash Vlastvier wields his power and supremacy, to deny that he wants to rob Ash Vlastvier of everything he has.  
  
"I don't—"  
  
"I'll give you power," Ash Vlastvier promises almost sweetly, cloying words wrapping around the two of them as they stand close to one another, reminding Oliver that he doesn't really have much choice when it comes to his own fate, "and then—"  
  
***  
  
Oliver supposes it can be misconstrued as something sweet. It's almost as if Ash Vlastvier has learned how to be considerate, in that he even informed Oliver of what he's going to do, as though there's any chance in the world that Oliver had the ability to issue a viable protest. It's almost as if Ash Vlastvier has learned to do things for the sake of someone else, in that he claimed that his actions are going to benefit Oliver, as though Ash Vlastvier actually needs a reason to go on a rampage against people he doesn't consider worthwhile anyway.  
  
—Grand Romania's size and geographical location both limit the amount of natural resources it can siphon out of the brittle earth, which in turn restricts the quantity of SPHEREs they can produce, which consequently affect the number of pilots they can approve for promotion to the highest tier. The government is tripling its efforts regarding the production of more SPHEREs, so that they can increase the number of pilots from the current five.   
  
Without care for the country's revolutionary plans, Ash Vlastvier easily slaughters everyone who possesses the government-approved pilot tags.  
  
***  
  
Corpses of pilots and back-up pilots are neatly lined together as the clean-up team attempts to scrub the floors free of the stench of death, as the recovery team tries to match the mangled faces and battered bodies to their identity.  
  
Oliver denies any involvement when he's questioned by the security team. He isn't even in the vicinity of the murder scene when it happened, so the investigators let him go without reluctance. It's easy to deny any connection with the carnage in front of him, even though he is aware of every single thing that happened.  
  
He breathes in the scent of blood mixed with cleaning solutions. Hijacking the security feeds brought him to a place where he could have tried to stop Ash Vlastvier's rampage. The cacophony of bodies resisting against overwhelming power is burned to Oliver's mind, even if there's static and blurriness that separated the events he witnessed from his own reality.   
  
Oliver doubts that there are digital fingerprints left behind on the security feeds' database, just as he finds it highly unlikely that the higher-ups will end up discovering the identity of the culprit behind this massacre. And even if the IT team ends up tracing the hacking of the surveillance cameras back to Ash Vlastvier, Grand Romania isn't going to sacrifice losing their ace pilot just so they can placate the grieving families left by the approved-pilots' unfortunate demise.  
  
It's a clear display of superiority, Oliver supposes. A flashy massacre that didn't even wait for the cloak of nighttime is a sign that the culprit is extremely confident of his abilities. The world is slowly being narrowed down—this is just the beginning. Oliver isn't quite sure if he's fine with the way things are proceeding, but it's not like the choice lies within him.   
  
…Or rather, Oliver has already long forfeited his right to make a choice that can impact the world.  
  
***  
  
This is the moment that Oliver has been dreading for quite some time: ever since that day when emergency codes whistled across the shaking hallways, ever since that day when two enemy pilots dared to attempt to launch a stealth attack on the headquarters, ever since that day when Oliver encountered Cesar Black face-to-face.  
  
It feels like a long time has passed since that day, but it's only been roughly three months in reality. Perception is relative, after all, heavily dependent on one's own priorities and feelings. Oliver isn't strong like Ash Vlastvier, that's why he doesn't stop thinking about that day and what that means for his future.   
  
It's a milestone, a rather unpleasant one, but it nevertheless remains a milestone in his life.   
  
It's the first time Oliver had made an actual decision that actually mattered.  
  
It's a decision that rendered Oliver unable to make any other choice afterwards, because that day opened only one path for him.  
  
And that path includes this day, this moment, that Oliver has been dreading to arrive.  
  
***  
  
It's almost insulting, now that Oliver spares a few seconds to think about it, to even wish that nobody will resist against the path that he has opened up not only for himself, but for the entirety of Grand Romania.   
  
Everything is coming to an end.  
  
He wonders if the fall of the Herzog Kingdom was like this: a sudden sweep of the damaging tides of revolution, without granting anyone a chance to even blink before they find themselves at the bottom of someone's heel, a rebellion that sparks from just a handful of self-centered humans.  
  
There's only the two of them here, controlling Grand Romania's tumultuous future from the top floors of the headquarters. Oliver bites his lip as his fingers fly over the keyboards of the five computers in front of him. The headquarters has one hundred floors and he has to keep track of the security systems on all those levels; it isn't a job that can be done by one person alone, but that's what he's doing, because there's only two of them here, and there's no room for anybody else.  
  
Aside from that time inside the training room a week ago, the two of them haven't exchanged words, haven't discussed any plans, haven't agreed to any rebellions. But Oliver is nevertheless here out of his own volition, even though he's aware that this mess is ultimately because of a choice he made with his own hands, three months ago.  
  
With the top levels—containing the storage database for the most sensitive documents and the launch hangar for the precious SPHEREs—in their hands, Grand Romania officials are helpless and frantic outside the security lockdown that Oliver is imposing on each floor. The military research pods are also locked from the inside, forbidding anyone from entering the pods and obtaining weapons that can help the officials resist against the coup d'état.  
  
…It's a coup d'état, plainly put, though they're already more than halfway to their goal because the teenagers that can pilot SPHEREs are all massacred already, while the news of The King's long-hidden death has already been released to the country's news system.  
  
It's almost insulting, now that Oliver thinks about it, to even hope that Davy Black will not struggle against the blockades Oliver has placed around their current fortress.  
  
Davy Black looks regal and even his brandished gun seems to sparkle with nobility. Oliver tries to control the anxiety that's threatening to spill out of his lips; Davy Black is rumored to not have a congenial relationship with his father, but deaths have uncanny effects on a human's psyche. There's a huge chance that Davy Black is going to challenge their coup d'état not because of grief but because of loyalty to his name and honor. Oliver doesn't know if he and Ash Vlastvier possess a drive that can rival Davy Black's, and that can place them at a disadvantage.  
  
Oliver breaks his self-imposed rule of avoiding to look at his companion.  
  
Ash Vlastvier looks unaffected as always—or rather, he even looks pleased with the appearance of Davy Black pounding against the meter-thick steel walls that Oliver controlled to descend around the launch hangar area. Oliver's breath catches in his throat at the sight of that challenging grin; Davy Black is one of the few people that Oliver regards with great respect and admiration and Ash Vlastvier's grin isn't very conducive to Davy Black's continued survival.  
  
…But this is a coup d'état and Oliver is highly aware that this moment is inevitable, ever since he heartlessly murdered The King inside the computer room that Ash Vlastvier granted him access to. Oliver, until now, isn't quite sure about the actual reasons behind his actions; he has avoided contemplating about his reasons for a few months now, but he hasn't evaded the guilt of not feeling any remorse over his actions.  
  
Killing Cesar Black not only robs the country of its King, it also steals a father from Davy Black's family. More importantly, the lack of a King throws the country into chaos, with its most important figure taken out so easily and swiftly.   
  
It's Oliver's first decision in his life and he doesn't feel any regret over it.  
  
"Let him in." Ash Vlastvier's voice thunders over his shoulders like an ominous cloud. Oliver mourns the imminent loss of yet another life, yet another addition to the increasing body count linked to his decision. "Let's go welcome him, hmm?"  
  
Not without hesitation, Oliver leaves his spot facing rows of computers displaying various security feeds and headquarters' blueprints. He takes cautious steps towards the door where the steel barricade has been lifted, shadowing Ash Vlastvier's confident footsteps. Their shoes click against the metal floors; the sounds echo in the mostly-empty launch hangar.   
  
Davy Black practically bulldozes over to where they're standing, his gun unwavering even though his chest is heaving with a combination of exertion and barely restrained anger. There's almost no need for proper aiming at their distance; there's at least an eighty percent chance of the bullet ending up inside one's organs once Davy Black presses the trigger.   
  
Oliver can see Ash Vlastvier's shoulders drawn and not shaking the slightest bit. There's no question about it: Ash Vlastvier is exhilarated at the thought of fighting Davy Black. Oliver lets his right hand touch his pants' right pocket; he relaxes a bit once his fingers bump against the compact controller he pocketed earlier. In just a few minutes, there will be an inevitable clash of weapons here and Oliver isn't capable of utilizing a weapon without harming himself. He needs something that he can use, because there's no telling how much strength Davy Black gained from his heightened emotions.   
  
"You deserve to be thrown into the Abyss for your sins." Davy Black cuts the air with razor-sharp words; his right hand aims for a straight line to Ash Vlastvier's chest; his left hand rummages lightly around his back pocket for a long knife with an intricate-looking handle. "Or rather, being dumped to the Black Sea will satisfy the ones you harmed with your little game."  
  
This isn't a game, Oliver wants to say, but his words shrivel inside his throat. Oliver takes two steps back, placing considerable distance between him and the two pilots. His graceless movement catches the eye of the next-in-line to the throne of The Highest King.   
  
"I've always known that you're incredibly messed-up," Davy Black addresses the grinning Ash Vlastvier pointedly, "but I didn't think you're cruel enough to drag an idiot like him to your silly games."  
  
"He didn't threaten me—" Oliver attempts to choke out his words, but his weak rebuttal doesn't even garner a moment's worth of attention from either pilot.  
  
"I'd need a stress ball once I'm king, you know?"  
  
"He didn't—"  
  
"I'll send you directly to hell," Davy Black promises darkly, eyes glinting with fervor and seriousness that Oliver can't quite produce himself.  
  
Oliver moans inwardly at Ash Vlastvier's provocation; Davy Black is already a formidable opponent on a normal day, on a moment when there's no future of a country resting upon his shoulders, on a time when his hands aren't affected by a thirst for vengeance. There's hardly any need for Ash Vlastvier to string Davy Black's emotions along.  
  
…If Davy Black succeeds on ending this snowballing revolution right here, right now, there's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will be sentenced to a dishonorable exile to the Black Sea.  
  
Exile to the Black Sea is not different from a death sentence; the Black Sea isn't nicknamed the Hell Abyss based on sheer arrogance. The small, peculiar water mass that lurks inside the shadows cast by the Pillar of Despair compliments the tower of despair splendidly. Old texts from the initial exploration expeditions sent by Grand Romania during its founding years entail the gruesome fates of the prisoners sent to the Black Sea for their punishment.  
  
A fate worse than any death.  
  
Oliver sucks in a shuddering breath.  
  
Sending Ash Vlastvier to the Black Sea will effectively remove him and his influence on Oliver's pathetic life.  
  
Oliver exhales slowly, his chest simultaneously squeezing tight enough to burn and relaxing enough for his entire body to grow lax.   
  
It's almost a wonder, now that he thinks about it, how drastically things change within just a span of a few months.  
  
The compact controller inside his pants' pocket is just waiting for his voice-activation, since the blood and fingerprint biometrics have already been permanently programmed into all his devices. Oliver presses his thumb against the controller's small nub on top, a transmitter that communicates with the devices in the launch hangar area.   
  
It's almost unfair, to utilize one's own weapons against oneself, but Oliver justifies it by thinking that Grand Romania should have invested a little more time and effort into developing intellectuals who could build layer upon layer of security networks around their precious military resources. Oliver is plainer than an average person, but given enough idle time inside the infirmary transformed him into someone who actually knows a thing or two about hacking into flimsy security systems and stealing login information, as well as pertinent access codes that can grant him permission to control restricted places.  
  
He didn't develop the Electronic Domination Program in order to destroy Grand Romania—he didn't develop the EDP for anything in particular really.  
  
But as much as he relies on his unfeeling computers and unfailing machineries, Oliver remains human, painfully so, and he still functions under faulty human reasoning, loyalty and feeling.   
  
"Kill him," Ash Vlastvier breathes out the words that are already ricocheting inside his skull.  
  
Oliver's foliage-green eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the timing of Ash Vlastvier's words. The 01 pilot takes two steps to the side in order to give Oliver a clear path to face Davy Black.   
  
Oliver is ready, he tells himself, to follow Ash Vlastvier's words and murmur the words needed to activate his EDP-controller. He is ready to block another pathway that leads to the future, steering Grand Romania to an outcome that favors the half-baked scenarios coiling around inside his mind. He is ready to end an era, even though he personally doesn't have much complaint about the way life is proceeding for him.  
  
But he remains human still, and his humanity grants him the unenviable task of shouldering illogical emotions-needs-wants that shape his decisions into something more tangible.  
  
So Oliver replies with a sigh dipped in a mixture of mercilessness and indifference: "I will."  
  
***  
  
With a bleeding right hand, Oliver attempts to slide his knees and elbows across the floors, fingers grazed with bullets stretching and reaching out for the tiny device that rolls far away from his reach.  
  
The familiar sensation of pain skittering down his nerve endings serves as an effective reminder to why he actively avoids physical confrontations. Oliver jerks his head downwards, tugging it close to his neck, when he hears the scream-pitch whistle of a bullet leaving a gun's nozzle. There's a sound of metal-polish hissing and sizzling as the newly-shot bullet carves a hole into the launch hangar floors. It's a dangerous situation altogether and Oliver remains within range of Davy Black's frantic attacks.  
  
Without even looking back, Oliver is hyper-aware of Davy Black's gun now pointed at the back of his head, an easy shot to end his pathetic existence in this miserable world. He continues alternating between sliding and crawling across the floors, undoubtedly provoking the 02's instinct to shoot down all opposing forces. Without even looking back, Oliver is also hyper-aware that Ash Vlastvier is forcing Davy Black away with his signature frenzied series of movements.  
  
There has been no such thing as plans, pacts or promises between the two of them, but Oliver somehow instinctively understands that Ash Vlastvier isn't going to let him perish that quickly.  
  
…Wait, what?  
  
Oliver's neurons crackle at his most recent traitorous thought. He suddenly slows to a stand-still, half-kneeling against the floor, fingers inches away from his EDP controller. There's a steady stream of sounds, of blows landing on clothed flesh, running in the background. Oliver's heartbeat confusedly swings between shocked hollowness and accelerated perplexity, his blood rushing everywhere and all over, pressure building up behind his eyelids.  
  
Why is he even here?  
  
Why is he even risking his life here?  
  
Why is he even risking everything to be with Ash Vlastvier?  
  
He doesn't have any reason to do anything like this, yet he's frantically reaching out for a remote control that can end his quickstep-fast dance of violence. He doesn't have any reason to be anywhere near here, yet he's still not stumbling over his legs in order to flee.   
  
Oliver looks back, slowly tilting his body, in time to witness Ash Vlastvier successfully land a vicious uppercut to Davy Black's jaw. Such a blow can bring someone to a staggering stop; Davy Black simply takes two steps backward, before recovering and countering with a punch of his own.   
  
Pilot assessments, physical indicators, capability calculations—reality—numbers proclaim Ash Vlastvier to be the strongest person inside the Grand Romania territory. Those numbers are losing their meaning steadily, as Davy Black refuses to fold under the attacks raining down on him, as he rejects the limits imposed on him by his own body and his own statistics.   
  
Much like Ash Vlastvier's battle with Rei, there's now a possibility that Ash Vlastvier will actually lose.  
  
'Kill him', Ash Vlastvier had said, and Oliver had easily failed that simple instruction.  
  
Oliver stares down at his hands with some sort of wonder, life seeping out his bullet-wound.   
  
Davy Black will surely not stop with just demanding for Ash Vlastvier to be thrown into the Black Sea, now that Davy Black has observed Oliver's defiance.  
  
Oliver feels pain prickling his skin, but he moves anyway, unsteadily rising to his feet, shakily making his way to where his own, back-up computer is located. Something akin to desperation throbs inside his head, driving his thought processes haywire.   
  
Despite now having access to more powerful supercomputers, Oliver keeps the most important program inside his personal computer.  
  
Oliver mutes his computer immediately after booting it up. He keeps his breathing shallow and silent, as his eyes are focused on the two pilots fully concentrated on each other. That arrangement is just fine with him, since he doesn't really want to attract the attention of any one of them, especially not now.  
  
The launch hangar is a strategic position as the headquarters of their coup d'état, but no matter how many SPHEREs and artillery are stacked here, Oliver remains as useless as a weaponless newborn.  
  
He's going to change that—soon.  
  
It only takes a couple of words-numbers-strings-1s-0s. His fingers fly over his keyboard, the tap-tap-tap noises easily drowned by the clash of weapons-against-flesh-against-bones-against-swords a few meters away. Even the sound of a cryogenic container ascending from its hiding place underneath the metal flooring goes unnoticed. That's just fine with Oliver. It's much better if Davy Black is unable to see the body of his father, Grand Romania's Highest King, artificially frozen in a state that can almost mimic life, in a form that surely brings shame to the royal line. It's much better if Ash Vlastvier doesn't notice the way Oliver has sunk so deep into his area of influence, acting in a way that mimics insanity.   
  
Oliver's thoughts are both deafeningly screaming and eerily silent at once.   
  
The end is near.  
  
There's no more fitting end than this.  
  
Oliver almost senses it before it happens: Davy Black's newly reloaded gun unleashing a bullet to the joint on Ash Vlastvier's right shoulder, Davy Black's dagger embedding on the flesh of Ash Vlastvier's upper thigh, Davy Black's hatred driving away all sense of reasonable limits.   
  
Oliver's physical strength tests show that he can win against a one-legged, one-armed, seventy-three-year-old woman—either that, or against a two-year-old brat with zero initial motor coordination training.  
  
Davy Black is neither of those.  
  
Oliver is incapable of even killing an ant.  
  
The Highest King isn't as minute as an ant.  
  
Oliver's fingers are cold but firm, positioned in an unfamiliar grip, an elaborately-designed gun colder and firmer in his hold.  
  
"I'm sorry," he murmurs to the air thrumming with discord, unheard by anyone else but his own ears, unacknowledged by the ones who he needs to apologize to.  
  
A bullet hits Davy Black's shoulder and Oliver panics, pressing against the trigger again, uncaring about the recoil traveling up and down his trembling arms. Another bullet joins the first one, red flowers blooming wonderfully on Davy Black's skin.   
  
Oliver almost drops the gun that he retrieved from the Highest King's cooling corpse. The freezing temperature is spreading from his fingers. He barely notices Ash Vlastvier looking at him expressionlessly.   
  
"It's you…?"  
  
Oliver figures that Davy Black deserves to know the truth, so he nods, with as much certainty he can summon.   
  
Instead of beautifully red petals, disgust and fury bloom on Davy Black's handsome face, spinning and mixing into one ugly emotion that spells out the desire to kill Oliver.  
  
Oliver raises his right hand, the stolen gun in plain view. Davy Black deserves to know the truth, about the untimely end of his father, about the experiments and desecration Oliver has performed on the unresisting corpse just so he can obtain the biometrics data he needed for his software to successfully bypass all the security restrictions inside the headquarters, about the way Oliver didn't hesitate dealing death blow upon death blow even when he's painfully aware of Cesar Black's importance not only to the entire country but to his family as well.  
  
"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, this time reaching Davy Black's ears and fueling the other's righteous wrath. "I'm sorry it came to this."  
  
Oliver is just an outsider—thrown away by his family in order to protect their own status and dreams, rejected by his classmates who are stronger and better than him, discarded by life altogether—a useless, pathetic person.  
  
Davy Black runs toward him, murderous intent palpable in his dilated eyes, uninjured hand raised up, dagger's sharp edge ready to puncture his heart.  
  
'Kill him', Ash Vlastvier had said.  
  
They didn't speak or collude. There are no plans and schemes between the two of them. There is nothing holding the two of them together aside from their toxic relationship.  
  
Oliver's fingers are numb, too numb to even lightly brush against the trigger.  
  
Ash Vlastvier is looking at him, undoubtedly curious to observe what he's going to do, to choose.   
  
In the end, there's really no such thing as guilt in his heart.  
  
Three consecutive shots later—one to the forehead, one to the heart, one to the right lung—and Davy Black's furious face is suddenly awash with crimson paint, his tense arms flopping lifelessly forward, his entire form sinking to the ground.   
  
Kill him, Oliver did.  
  
"You're really stupid," Ash Vlastvier comments a short moment later, displeased with his stricken expression.   
  
Oliver just nods, mind hazy and confused with the choices he's been making recently. The royal gun that he stole from Cesar Black and then used to kill Davy Black is still in his right hand. The evidence of his decisions is still in plain view, bared for anyone to see.  
  
Without another word, Ash Vlastvier turns his back to him, before returning to where he's been proclaiming his demands to the entire country.  
  
Oliver just sinks to his knees and silently—  
  
—smiles.  
  
•  
  
There's usually a party that accompanies each promotion to the main pilot ranks, but since there's no such thing as 'main pilots' and 'back-up pilots' anymore, and there are no fellow pilots to congratulate the newcomer, the 'welcome party' is just a silent affair.  
  
Oliver Payne finds the view from the topmost floor to be nostalgic and depressing, but he presses his forehead against the glass window nevertheless, his gaze focused on the skyscraper rising from the desolate landscape. The second headquarters' construction is proceeding smoothly, freeing up some of his time so that he can focus on other projects.   
  
It's just a couple of hours before the New Year, but the Main Assembly Hall is filled with rows of supercomputers, while Grand Romania citizens' hearts are filled with dread and steel. Surprisingly, the approval rating for Ash Vlastvier's reign is the highest since the country's inception.   
  
…Though maybe that isn't so surprising, given that the citizens are most probably too frightened to voice out their concerns and dissatisfaction with a teenage pilot's hostile takeover and subsequent policies.   
  
It's only been days since he placed Davy Black's body beside his father's, both hosted comfortably inside the cryogenic freezers he developed, but it feels like an entire year has already passed. Sleep has been relegated to an optional activity, since there are a lot of things that need his attention. Ash Vlastvier is an excellent military strategist but his power-oriented mind doesn't have much room for other concerns regarding how to operate a country. Oliver isn't very smart either, but there's nobody else who can make sure the balance sheets are well, balanced, just like there's nobody else who can link the scattered security systems together to create a more stable framework, just as there's nobody else who can devise plans and process flows that need to be followed to ensure efficiency.   
  
Oliver can almost hear the protests of the brittle earth against their planned expansion.  
  
Instead of spending time inside their homes, citizens of the underground cities are surely still milling around the city areas, silently bearing the rules and orders imposed on them by a teenager who happens to possess undeniable power. Oliver murmurs a quiet apology against the window, his breath fogging up the glass slightly, a useless gesture since he didn't even try to argue with 01's decision to inflict a hundred-hour work week to the citizens.  
  
Oliver faintly wonders if there's still a scrap of logic fueling his actions, but it's much too late to feel remorse over the things he has done, over the things he is doing, over the things he will undoubtedly do. He changes alongside the country, sinking deeper and further into an inescapable abyss as time goes by. Unbeknownst to the entire world, Grand Romania's metamorphosis is about to reach its peak.  
  
The near-emptiness of the area makes it possible for the soft sound of a door sliding open to feel like a sound booming against his ears. Oliver doesn't turn his head to acknowledge the arrival of the person he never thought he'd work alongside with.  
  
"Congratulations on your promotion," Ash Vlastvier's voice is brittle and raspy, almost a little breathless, "02."  
  
Numbers don't matter anymore, though the label '02' still unfailingly brings a light flutter to his heart. He's only 02 because there's nobody else around and nobody dares to question the words of the new, self-instated King.   
  
Oliver shrugs, his shoulders sighing with fatigue and melancholy.   
  
A rustle of clothes reach his ears. Oliver keeps his gaze fixed on the headquarters whose construction he's overseeing. There's a faint scent of blood that travels across the distance separating the two of them. He folds his hands across his chest, his fingers digging against his skin as he restrains himself from asking questions he knows will go ignored.   
  
Oliver doesn't breathe again until there's another sound of the metal door sliding open. He slumps forward, bumping his forehead against the glass window a little forcibly. There's no point regretting or hoping to feel regret by now.   
  
There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier slaughtered everybody assembled inside the Castles of Nevermore—thanks to the intelligence he gathered from the linked security system he layered over the entire country's perimeter. While most of the Grand Romania citizens are more content to keep their heads bowed respectfully, fearfully, some factions made mostly of politicians and members of the royal family are more than a bit displeased at the thought of their privileges disappearing in a blink. It's Oliver's job to make sure those whispers of dissatisfaction and schemes of upheaval are discovered swiftly and squashed thoroughly. That's why there's no point in continuing to harbor hopes for guilt to start taking root in his conscience.   
  
He distantly wonders if he should start with a project proposal for training new sets of soldiers, since the Castles of Nevermore is quite a large area that can undoubtedly be more useful if utilized properly.  
  
Oliver sighs deeply, the sound echoing in the nearly-empty area.  
  
He turns his head to the side, gaze now focusing on his opened personal computer.  
  
"I'm the 02 now, sister," Oliver reports to the digital Jade Payne he molded from his memories and from his mind, "I guess that rank is higher than yours, even if mine doesn't mean anything really."  
  
[You really enjoy saying stupid things, don't you? As if I give a shit about your bogus promotion!]  
  
Oliver chuckles softly, mentally agreeing with each word his 'sister' says.  
  
There's little time left before the world witnesses the effects of Grand Romania's transformation into a powerful country controlled by an equally-powerful leader. He wonders if his sister can keep her arrogant tone once she realizes that even her country isn't safe from Grand Romania's ambitious grasp, once she discovers that her useless brother is involved with Grand Romania's transformation into a greedy conquistador that is willing to destroy even itself just so it can annihilate others, once she understands that there's nothing she can do to stop Grand Romania from advancing and spreading to each corner of the dying world.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]  
  
Oliver laughs again, a gentle sound that doesn't match the documents he just circulated to the government networks in the lower floors, a kind gesture that contradicts the plans he devised to sustain Grand Romania's expansion.  
  
[You dare to laugh at me? You? Know your place, idiot!]  
  
"For the first time, sister," Oliver informs his 'sister' with a tone that almost sounds mystified, "someone actually chose me over someone else." He pauses for a moment, thinking, before he amends his earlier statement, "…Over a lot of people, actually."  
  
[What the hell are you blubbering now?]  
  
Oliver shakes his head, as though to say that it can't be helped if his 'sister' is unable to comprehend his sentiments.  
  
He wonders if his sister will be the one to greet him once he moves out on his PLATINUM. It's unlikely, since his scheduled mission is a stealth attack against Allemagne, but there's still a chance that Allemagne's security cameras can catch a glimpse of his inappropriately-named, obsidian-hued PLATINUM, a chance that his sister's perimeter sweep coincides with his scheduled attack against the world's third-ranked country.  
  
Now that he thinks about it, isn't it funny?  
  
He spent most of his life underneath the heels of bullies—yet now, he's the one getting ready to make thousands of people suffer.  
  
Not only that, he's also helping the person who has plagued him the most—the person who continues to torment him at the end of the day, cruelly snatching away the few hours of rest he's entitled to after nearly an entire day of approving submitted plans and devising new projects.   
  
He ignores his 'sister's' squawks as he unceremoniously closes his personal computer without properly shutting down his voice program. He then goes back to thumping his forehead against the glass windows, staring at the expanse of shadowy lands that stretch out uncertainly in front of him.  
  
Now that he thinks about it, isn't it funny indeed?  
  
It seems that while he isn't even aware of it, supremacy is already crawling into his hands.  
  
Oliver closes his eyes and just silently—  
  
•   
  
**END of seventh rotation;**  
 _the reign of kings._   
  
•••


	8. turn 08: eighth entity

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 08: eighth entity_  
  
(—equivalence—)  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot._ Jade Payne  
 _sphere_. AMETHYST  
 _rank._ Freedom Union – 04  
  
•  
  
It might come as a surprise to quite a number of people, but she only lives by one rule—or if you want to call it principle, then fine—or code even, or whatever you want to call it. She knows that she comes off as someone who is full of complicated thoughts and what-not—which she doesn't deny, because there's just no way she'll allow someone who calls her ugh, 'simple', to continue wasting oxygen in this horrid earth—but the secret to being wonderfully complex yet also not insane like the mad scientists downstairs is to abide by one belief.  
  
"Different people have different worth," Jade Payne recites in front of wide-eyed pilot-hopefuls, her hands on her hips as she wets her lips afterwards. She registers looks of awe and wonder, as well as looks of desire, from her little audience. That's all fine with her, since there's no way she can turn a blind eye to her own amazingness. She's okay with giving them a few things to be happy about—not that they should even dare feel unsatisfied with just her mere presence, that is—so she leans forward rather excessively, subtly jiggling her chest barely covered by her low-cut top. She notices a few more guys join the group unabashedly staring at her body instead of listening to her words of wisdom.  
  
She smirks, her blood-red lips curving seductively. She straightens up her stance, delighting at the way disappointment clearly shows up on the trainees' faces. She isn't here to grant them their wishes though; she's here to give them information on what to expect once they successfully make their way up the ranks. While it's true that pilots live a pretty luxurious life, the higher-ups apparently aren't too pleased with trainees solely motivated by the pretty things—the truly important things, she thinks, but whatever to the old farts—so current pilots are required to stage learning sessions with the trainees. She isn't too sure what kind of results the higher-ups are expecting from this waste of time, but hey, she gets extra pay while avoiding spending time inside boring mission briefing rooms, so this is a rather not-entirely-useless waste of time.  
  
"Some actions become acceptable in society's eyes if done by a person with enough worth," she says importantly, elaborating further so she can extend her stay in this room for a few more minutes in hopes of avoiding the boring pilot assessment that definitely doesn't fail in driving her to a state of narcolepsy, "while people without worth sin just by existing."  
  
It's definitely true, Jade thinks. Wearing low-cut tops that are definitely out of the dress code is acceptable, welcomed even, in her case because she is a worthy person. Nobody will even dare to give her a warning or a verbal smackdown because of her provocative way of dressing—not when every single person drools at her sight. She isn't so thrilled with wrinkly old men leering at her, but most of those wrinkly old men are the ones who approve her paycheck and fine-tune her AMETHYST, so tolerating them is quite high in her priority list.  
  
Her younger brother, however, is an eyesore who needs to just please die, because the thought of someone like him alive is enough to tickle her gut—and not in a good way. Maybe he's actually dead, she isn't sure, since she doesn't have even a minute that is available for useless idiots who happen to share the same mother-father-name as her. It's enough to prompt her to gag. He doesn't matter, so she decides that there's no harm in deciding that he's already dead. He doesn't matter anyway, so it's not like she's harming anyone with her thoughts and her decision to just kill him off. It's better this way, she justifies inside her mind, smiling beautifully on the outside—he won't irritate others if he's dead and isn't that just splendid?  
  
The trainees in front of her all look at her with dilated eyes. They don't really respond to her words, but that's just fine. She isn't terribly interested in hearing low-grade opinions. And they are trainees, so the chance of them having insightful comments is close to none.  
  
"There are a lot of worthless people infesting this world," as if there aren't enough things to worry about, Jade spitefully adds in her mind. Unfortunately worthless people multiply a lot faster than people worth her attention. It almost feels like a conspiracy to drive her nuts. She pauses for a bit, thinking about her next words. She's supposed to give them something they can learn about, something they can apply to their training, something they can set as a goal instead of merely attaining wealth. "So better hurry up and do your best to add value to yourselves."  
  
There, that sounds great.   
  
Really, these kids should be just about jumping for joy. They're superbly lucky to get a learning session with her, instead of maybe with Ruby or Narcissus, the two most disdainful pilots ever. Not everyone has the fortune of spending time with her and her radiant awesomeness, so they should be brimming with barely-repressed ecstasy now, or something.  
  
Her distracted gaze travels to the front door, just in time to see Ruby Alizarin, the current 02, pass by.  
  
Jade's lips curl into something resembling a snarl—but it isn't a snarl, because that's just ugly and there's nothing in her actions that can even qualify for something less than perfectly beautiful—as she catches a glimpse of one of the most worthless people she had the misfortune of meeting.  
  
Her only reprieve is that everybody else agrees that Ruby Alizarin is a being that deserves all the disapproval, all the mockery, all the hatred she's receiving. Ruby only got her 02 position because she spread her legs for the higher-ups who are so frustrated with simply looking at her hot body and are instead consoling themselves with whoever is available. While Jade is only too happy to not be burdened with the disgusting job of relieving the sexual frustration of the higher-ups who are old enough to be her grandfather, it's still revolting to think that someone that nauseating exists within her radius of influence.  
  
She hasn't seen Ruby's battles, not one of them, which only cements her belief that she's as useless as all the rumors say. She isn't interested in seeing a whore's battle anyway, because that will probably just end up with her flashing her opponent into a state of shock, or something equally unprofessional.   
  
There's a cough that sounds almost awkward—the sound disturbs her thoughts, so she readies an icy glare for the person who dared disrupt her Ruby-hate session. The trainee practically shrinks to her seat, looking embarrassed and sheepish—and that's about right, since she's just a mere trainee who hasn't even breathed the same air as SPHEREs. The trainee also looks pathetic: with freckles all over her pudgy face, a flat nose that's only less flat than her very-flat chest, with unbelievably fat lips that appear right at home with the prehistoric humans. Disgusting. Jade feels justified in glaring even harder, willing her scathing thoughts to travel across the room and slap the trainee soundly.  
  
Jade thinks that the only person she dislikes more than Ruby is Narcissus Duke, an utterly useless person that's unfortunately born to the country's most powerful family. She is one hundred percent certain that the only reason Narcissus is occupying the last spot in the pilot rankings is because his family is the main economic contributor to Freedom Union. He's completely unlike his younger sister, Jade's best friend, who is plenty strong and deserving of her position as a Freedom Union pilot.  
  
It's a relief that everyone agrees with her assessment of Narcissus' worthlessness—Narcissus definitely deserves all the bullying he's been receiving all throughout his life, because he's a waste of air and space.   
  
Her worthless brother, Narcissus Duke and Ruby Alizarin make up her top three worthless people list, and she is more than simply excited in waiting for deaths to befall all three of them, just so she can breathe a little easier. It doesn't bring her a pleasant feeling, to think that worthless idiots are actually occupying space in this earth. She feels like she grows more stressed with each moment she spends inhabiting the same planet as those three. Stress counteracts her natural beauty and her make-up products, so stressful things need to disappear ASAP, for the sake of her magnificence.  
  
There's another cough—this time from a different trainee. Jade glares again, tapping her high-heeled shoes impatiently against the floor. She isn't that ecstatic with babysitting hopeless trainees, but she's here out of the goodness of heart. They should be thankful she's even allowing herself to be this near to people that don't have anything to be proud about; instead they're rudely coughing and just being ungrateful for the blessing in front of them.  
  
She's rapidly reaching the end of her long patience. These valueless people don't even have the luxury of being labeled with the word 'pilot' yet, so they don't have any right to interrupt her. These worthless people only exist now because she's very hard-working when it comes to fulfilling her missions that mostly involves securing the country's perimeter and checking for breaches in the security. It's a very important job and she doesn't even complain—unless her mission coincides with a date or with a scheduled trip to the spa or with her beauty sleep: essential stuff, basically—and they dare to be anything less than completely grateful to her?  
  
The nerve of them, really!  
  
She narrows her eyes and parts her lips in order to give them a piece of their mind, but a familiar face appears on the corner of her peripheral vision. Scratch that, a familiar, perfect face.  
  
A familiar, perfect face with ethereal blond hair that reaches past his lovely knees, braided not-too-loosely-not-too-tightly: beautiful long hair that symbolizes an entire lifetime of not losing to anyone, following the tradition of the millennia-old Gainsboro line of only cutting one's hair once he tastes defeat. A familiar, perfect face with striking gold eyes: warm and vibrant with pulsing life, cool and composed with aristocratic grace, flawless and impeccable like the rest of his person. A familiar, perfect face with slender limbs, intellectual mind, complete excellence: capable of harmonious actions that appear wonderfully enchanting even while he's bringing his opponents to their knees, gifted with an impossible combination of wisdom and skill that allows him to best people in both strategies and actual fighting, characteristics held together immaculately to form an image that is utterly spotless and just completely perfect.  
  
Aster Gainsboro's sudden presence effectively catches the attention of her entire class—and while she loathes getting upstaged by anyone, she totally understands that she can't even compare to someone as dazzling as the gold-haired teenager who serves as Freedom Union's 01 pilot—and even she takes a moment to breathe sharply in order to force oxygen to enter her turned-to-mush brain. It's absolutely hopeless: she's just no match for someone as picture-perfect as Aster, even though she's known him for years.   
  
—That thought suddenly reminds her: she's been in Freedom Union for, like, ten years already, but she can't actually pinpoint when she first met Aster. It's totally weird, because her memory's quite good—an outright understatement, because there's nothing about her that can be described as simply 'good'—but she just can't remember the exact moment she crossed paths with Aster. Something as romantic as a first meeting between her and the enthralling prince should stand out, quite proudly, in her memories, but it just… isn't.  
  
Jade frowns a little, before she soothes the lines in her face with the thought that it wouldn't do to show a less-than-perfect expression in front of Aster. She foregoes her usual composure and instead practically bounces to where her upperclassman is standing by the doorway. Normally, she loathes being seen as a ditzy, teenage girl, no matter how appropriate that description fits her. But to be seen, by fifty pairs of eyes no less, as someone cool enough to be on such friendly terms with the Aster Gainsboro is good enough reason to act giddy and flirty beyond acceptability.  
  
She talks, rapid-fire words that flow and mesh with each other, about a lot of things because she's bored beyond her mind and Aster always looks interested in what she's saying, no matter how mundane her topic is—not that the concept of dullness applies to someone as brilliant as her. She sometimes pauses, a bit uncertain if Aster can still understand the things she wants him to know, the thoughts she wants to convey, the feelings she wants to share, but Aster smiles at her, a gentle curve of his lips, and she mentally swoons and continues talking, if only to obtain another one of those wonderful smiles.  
  
She definitely isn't the only one smitten by Aster Gainsboro, but that's completely fine with her. Aster deserves all the fawning and admiration he gets because he's a wonderful person, a worthy person, a valuable person.   
  
Different people have different worth and Aster Gainsboro is worth a million people, maybe even an entire world.  
  
"Are you done with your lesson?" Aster inquires, a stray strand of hair escaping from his braid and falling over his eyes with a curious tilt of his head, sounding so genuinely interested that Jade finds it hard to not start blabbering nonsensically.  
  
"Yes—yes—I'm, yes, quite done," she manages to say, a tad more forgiving to herself for tripping over her words.  
  
Aster smiles at her once again, the sight pushing her heartbeat to accelerated levels. "Well, I can wait for you? And then we can go to the pilot assessment meeting together."  
  
"I'm actually finishing up," Jade mutters quickly, totally not caring that she's actually not too pleased with having to go through boring speeches and talks about future plans for the pilot trainings in order to increase their competitiveness or something, "so we can go soon. Just, um, give me a sec, okay?"  
  
"Oh!" Aster replies cutely, eyes traveling around the roomful of trainees. "Okay then. I'll wait for you here."  
  
Jade grins in absolute giddiness, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink.   
  
Finally!   
  
There's an entire legion of Aster-admirers but only if they can see her now! He's the one who asked her to walk to the pilot briefing rooms together! He's the one who volunteered to wait for her! He's the one who took the initiative!  
  
He's the one who thinks that she is worthy of his attention!  
  
Oh, how wonderful this moment is!  
  
If only there were scented candles illuminating the entire room, instead of blinding-white fluorescent lights. If only there were violins and guitars strumming in the background, instead of meaningless chattering and breathing sounds. If only there were important people gaping at the sight of a prince and his chosen princess, instead of valueless trainees that don't even have enough sense to applaud at the magnificent event happening in front of their very eyes.  
  
But no matter—this moment is quite perfect already and there's no point in being too greedy when it comes to the blessings raining down upon her dainty shoulders. It's not like she can do something about the banality of her surroundings.     
  
She is a whirlwind of hasty goodbyes and rushed pleasantries, as she tries to make her way back to where Aster is waiting for her in the shortest possible time. She doesn't quite realize what she's saying, doesn't quite comprehend the stream of words spilling out of her lips as she wraps up the training lesson.  
  
None of those things matter though, once she's already out of the classroom, with Aster offering to carry her bags for her in that heartbreaking gentlemanly way of his. She almost faints with giddiness at the gesture, very certain that she's blushing to the tips of her toes.   
  
Her studies about the ancient times tell her that there existed a time very long ago, when women were actually treated as dispensable beings. It's a pleasant surprise to see and experience Aster subvert all the reported findings about men being arrogant bastards who consider themselves superior just because their reproductive organs are hanging vulnerably in between their legs. Or something.  
  
In any case, Jade almost floats as she matches Aster's easygoing pace, her heels practically bouncing with delight. Not everyone has a chance of being this close to the unbearably popular 01 and she feels like the luckiest person ever just to have a moment like this. It doesn't even matter that she hates attending pilot assessment meetings or anything that has something to do with her position as a pilot for Freedom Union. The only thing that matters is that Aster wants her with him and nobody else.   
  
Aster wants her.  
  
Aster wants her.  
  
Aster wants her to remain with him, not only now, but also tomorrow, and the day after, and twenty years after, an eternity after.  
  
Aster wants her.  
  
Yes.  
  
That's the only thing that matters.  
  
***  
  
It comes as a bit of surprise to find out that all the pilots are there already except for her and Aster. She rarely is late for these types of meetings, since she can get rather obsessive with managing her schedule so that she has ample time to prepare herself for whatever she needs to do next. Aster smiles at her softly, before dropping off her bags at her designated table.   
  
Jade sighs forlornly, already missing the quiet moment she shared with Aster just a few minutes beforehand. The looks on the SPHERE engineers and the military heads gazing down at them from their elevated holographic projectors don't seem to be very welcoming. Everything's moving at an accelerated pace, which is just fine and dandy with her, because they're all just so eager to hurry up and destroy themselves.   
  
Too much excitement is hardly an advantageous thing, but Jade isn't really keen on devising strategies and spending hours in front of computers while trying to think of all possible scenarios. She's the type who prefers actual action—she doesn't mind going out on her AMETHYST so that she can swiftly crush Grand Romania's hopes at becoming an international superpower. She's not too eager on sitting beside computer screens and making predictions and plans on how to handle Grand Romania's ambitious expansion.  
  
The year 686 has just started and everybody's already acting as though the year is driving to a close. There's a string of anxiety circling above everyone's heads at the moment and that just isn't cool. Apprehension and stress go hand-in-hand and Jade has already declared stress to be her number one enemy. Stressing about the what-ifs isn't going to solve anything, so Jade would just rather the higher-ups assign the pilots to cascades of missions so they can nip the budding problems as soon as possible.  
  
"Where were you?" Pearl Duke, her bestest best friend, asks her with a barely-controlled hiss, her naturally loud voice doing its best to not disrupt the professional silence that hangs over the pilot briefing room. "I've been, well, leaving you messages! Like, well, ten messages already! And you weren't picking up your communicator, hmph!"   
  
"My training lesson took a bit longer to finish," Jade murmurs secretively, rolling her shoulders in their secret code for 'I'VE GOT GREAT NEWS THAT'S SUPER SECRET', smirking furtively at her best friend. By the way Pearl's exotic silver eyes widen—and hey, those are some killer eyeliners she's using!—Pearl definitely understands her secret message. It would be too easy to just gossip and giggle about Aster's actions earlier—it's still incredibly sweet and wonderful and oh, it's definitely great that he's already moving their relationship forward!—right here and now, but Jade isn't the type to make it easy for others to bask in her gloriousness and in her news that she should rightfully share with her best friend first.  
  
Pearl replies with a soft, humming noise that promises her understanding of Jade's underlying message. Not for the first time, Jade praises herself for her ability to make friends with awesome people who function on the same wavelength as hers.   
  
Jade's attention shifts to the cascade of statistics now filling the floor-to-ceiling monitors mounted on each corner of the room. The annual pilot assessments finished less than a month ago with not-entirely-satisfactory results and the numbers on the screens haven't changed much since then. It's only been three weeks since the previous assessment and she hasn't had the chance to participate in any missions yet, robbing her of the opportunity to improve her figures.   
  
Freedom Union is continuing its passivity as it merely observes the way the world turns. Recent missions are mostly reserved for perimeter checks and prototype tests. Bitching aside, she wants this fake tranquility to end because she's very sure that Freedom Union is just pretending to be a goody-goody country that doesn't involve itself much with the world's ambitious conquests.   
  
Individual pilot statistics are replaced by a mind-numbingly detailed itinerary that spans an entire year, dates and words and names of people filling the screens instead. Jade rolls her eyes, uncaring whether the old stooges see her lack of enthusiasm regarding the country's plans for the next twelve months. She sees her name and her SPHERE's on quite a number of lines; she feels a sense of placation running all over her skin, since piloting responsibilities mean chances of improving her status for the next pilot ranking.  
  
There's a diplomatic visit scheduled for February of AC 686—the details catch her pretty green eyes easily. There isn't any reason for Central Tower representatives to come and visit their country peacefully, not when Central Tower is currently at war with Archadia, one of Freedom Union's allies. Jade stares at the words displayed on the screen, ascertaining that she isn't just seeing things. The phrase 'diplomatic visit' doesn't waver or morph into something else.  
  
"Central Tower's Head of Research, Nise Hojo, will be representing his country's ideals and proposals on February." Aster's melodious tone drapes all over the room, and Jade is reminded of one of the reasons why she tolerates these types of meetings. As boring as they may be, most of the time, Aster takes over the role of meeting facilitator, which grants Jade the chance to hear more of Aster's deep and utterly orgasmic voice. "Central Tower's 01 pilot will be his escort."  
  
Jade straightens in her chair.   
  
…The 01 pilot?   
  
—The 01 pilot?  
  
What a wonderful opportunity, she thinks, giddiness recirculating in her veins. The 01 pilot is quite well-known for being extremely thorough in shoving defeat and annihilation in front of his enemies' faces. He is undoubtedly the strongest pilot in the entire world and Jade needs to meet him. Aster is exquisite and very perfect, but Rei is stronger despite being less pretty than Aster. Jade's quite certain that Aster will understand her straying from his side for a bit, because she deserves only the best, doesn't she? Aster should definitely understand that. Yes, Aster might even encourage her gunning for Central Tower's 01, because he will definitely consider her desires and her feelings above anyone else's.  
  
Excitement grips her body and it takes all her self-control to not hug herself tightly and squeal incessantly. She feels the weight of a few pilots' gazes settling on her flushed-with-excitement face, but she doesn't care! It's highly unlikely that they can understand her superior thoughts anyway, since a lot of the pilots unfortunately are lacking in the worthiness department. She grins in happiness despite the depressing thought of being surrounded by a number of useless people.  
  
She isn't concerned with Freedom Union's plans, not a little bit, but oh, she's so looking forward to February!  
  
***  
  
Yes, this isn't surprising at all.  
  
She definitely has been looking forward to this happening, but it still brings her a feeling of fulfillment, to know that she's right as always.  
  
Does she dare say it?  
  
Yes, she does, she decides after sighing in absolute bliss, shuddering a little as gloved hands massage her back in slow, firm motions.   
  
"I knew this would happen," she breathes out contentedly, nearly purring in delight as strong, sinewy arms tighten around her, encasing her in an embrace that makes her feel as though she's the only person in the entire world, as though she's the only one that has any value in this entire kingdom. She doesn't spare any time to think about how her partner will think of her after she voices out the reality of their situation.  
  
"You don't say," a not-breathless voice replies, but there's nevertheless a hint of interest there, and the slight tightening of the embrace is followed immediately by a curious tilt of the head.  
  
She isn't the type to hold back in declaring her beliefs and thoughts and opinions that are incredibly well thought-of and definitely correct. But she hesitates for a brief moment, her fingers stiffening for a few seconds, stilling while they are massaging soothing circles into her partner's scalp. Most of the people—ugh, does she even have to consider them to be a human being like her?!—that she's unfortunately surrounded with are too worthless to even comprehend her words. If, by some chance, they possess intellect to understand the meaning just lying underneath her statements, they aren't worthy enough to spew out complaints or contradictions.  
  
It's a different case now, since she's cradled inside the arms of possibly the world's most worthy person, an existence that's even higher than that of Aster's perfection.   
  
"You love me," she says instead and there's no hint of embarrassment there, because she knows it's true. He was the one who called out to her in such an authoritative voice that almost sent her down to her knees. He was the one who held her hand as he steered her towards a place unnoticed by the security cameras so that he could do things to her that did send her down to her knees. He was the one who kept on—keeps on—pressing kisses all over her skin as he branded her body over and over with the mark and fragrance of the world's strongest being. And she is the one who deserves his attention, his affection, his love. "And I love you. So that's why I knew this would happen."  
  
There's a charming grin on his lips, decorating his mouth that only knows words that render people submissive to their own defeat. He's happy, it seems. He's happy and she knows why. He doesn't tell her why he's grinning, but since they're in love with each other, she already knows why. It's only been four hours since they first shook hands, but love is a powerful emotion that can transcend logical boundaries, set up by humans that are much less worthy than her. It's not even half a day since they first met face-to-face and she already understands him as easily as a toddler's picture book.  
  
"Of course you're right, my goddess."  
  
She shudders in pure ecstasy—her mind spiking with pleasure because of his words rather than his touches—and she leans with her full weight against the wall, her eyes dilated with desire for more, more of his firm hands, more of his undisguised truth, more. She watches the way that charming grin remains etched on his thin lips, the way that his expression doesn't change at all, a totally flawless pinnacle of utter perfection.   
  
Yes, she is worthy of him.  
  
"I love you," she repeats, because there's no such thing as overkill when it comes to saying one's valuable sentiments. In her opinion, people don't say those three little words often enough; of course, when uttered by completely pathetic people, the words decay into rubbish, but when someone as fantastic as her is the one uttering those three words, eight letters, her existence, just the very fact of her opening her lips to say those words, they gain an entirely different layer of meaning. "…Now and forever…"  
  
He doesn't lean forward to capture her lips after her wholehearted declaration of their eternal bond, though he does lift his hands to caress the sides of her collarbone, of her neck, of the back of her ears. The charming grin is still painted like a masterpiece on the confident planes and lines of his face.  
  
She shudders again, her entire body trembling as she strains to listen to his reply.  
  
"…Of course you will."  
  
And with those words that are utterly annoying to be heard from the mouth of someone with the rank of a bug, she looks at up at her partner with shining eyes, completely taken by the person who is the most powerful and most worthy of everything in the entire world.  
  
And Rei, the wonderful, enthrallingly destructive number one pilot from Central Tower, retains that permanent grin, face not changing its expression even slightly.  
  
***  
  
It remains an insurmountable surprise to her: for completely imbecilic humans to be so utterly engrossed in their own pathetic lives and so totally captivated by their own low-grade happiness that seems almost enviable if one forgets the basic truth that undeserving people don't deserve, don't even receive anything hardly worth receiving.   
  
She has a discerning eye, that's why she can easily spot a fake from a mile away. And the happiness in front of her, shoved nastily in front of her when she doesn't have any intentions of publicly acknowledging that kind of counterfeit happiness, is fake. After all, one unremarkable person can't produce anything remarkable. The thought of two unremarkable people joining forces to produce something true and valuable is in the negative.  
  
Instead of feebly accepting that absolute logic though, the couple in front of her eyes continues to laugh and grin, with their expressions changing and fluctuating and generally acting like humans who are content. It's impossible, she knows. There's no way anyone can be content in the world they're currently in, especially if you don't even possess any real estate underground, if you don't even have at least three major achievements under your belt, if you don't even rank higher than fourth place in the pilot rankings.   
  
There's just no way.   
  
How can anyone be happy without any home to return to underground? How can anyone be happy when one's utterly stupid-brained? How can anyone be happy with being dead-last when it comes to piloting SPHEREs?   
  
It's unthinkable.  
  
It's been more than a year since their marriage, but they're still so inseparable, so attached-attracted-magnetized to each other.   
  
It's disgusting.  
  
She wants to snipe at them, even though that's something that is hardly expecting from someone as composed and dignified as her. She wants to scold them for being so cozy and sweet with each other at places where she can witness the loving gestures and hear the affectionate words that they share with each other. She wants to berate them for being so satisfied with their little cocoon of happiness, especially since she knows without question that the happiness they're cultivating is something that won't stand the test of time, simply because it's forged by two unworthy people.  
  
It's a tad annoying to feel this way: irritated beyond measure by the little, insignificant things happening around her.  
  
Pearl is more than a little busy recently with the problems in the Duke family's inheritance ceremony; she isn't spoiled enough to be so crass and intrude upon her best friend's hectic schedule when the root of her problem is just two insects who happen to score the two pilot positions below her rank.   
  
Daily, she uses the communication device that Rei pressed into her ample breasts before they parted a month ago. Daily, she undergoes a series of identification verifications and code decryptions before she can even reach the stage where she can hear the ringing sound that signifies a successful connection to the partner communication device in Rei's hands. Daily, she fails on hearing anything but the endless ringing tone that doesn't lead her anywhere.  
  
Obviously, as the number one pilot, Rei is the busiest among everyone in the entire world, so it's not like she has the right to actually complain or be ungrateful. He's just busy—busy being a pilot, busy being an idol, busy being perfect—that's why he hasn't been able to answer every single one of her calls.  
  
The simulated March weather is too bright and she narrows her eyes, squinting a bit, so that she won't get blinded by the artificial sunlight. She's supposed to head out to the SPHERE launch hangars in a few minutes' time, but she doesn't think she can pilot her AMETHYST while harboring a nauseated feeling. She sinks against her seat, closing her eyes in hopes of blocking out everything related to the couple waiting for their turn to enter their SPHEREs.  
  
They're just insects, she reminds herself steadily, repeating the mantra-like statement over and over inside her head.  
  
She isn't jealous of their happiness and of their proximity and of their love. The bond that she shares with her beloved Rei is still much better and much stronger than theirs, even if they haven't really talked to each other about a number of things yet, even if they haven't really communicated with each other since that single day last month, hidden inside the curves and shadows of the headquarters' hallways.  
  
There's just no way is she feeling any sort of envy—she's too awesome for that. Envy is an emotion reserved for weaker people who can't obtain the things that they want for themselves and instead resign themselves to being a mere observer of other people's blessings. She already has the things she wants, the person she wants, in her grasp, so she doesn't have any reason to feel envy.  
  
She looks at the two of them—Esmeralda safely ensconced in Jasper's arms as the two of them murmur softly-spoken words to each other's lips—and her fingers shakily tighten around the communication device that looks like an ordinary handheld phone on the outside.  
  
Their happiness isn't real, she reminds herself, because they're two unremarkable people who won't amount to anything.  
  
…Yes, she has no reason to feel any resentment at all.  
  
•••  
  
Pillar of Despair  
turn 08: eighth entity  
  
(—equivalence—)  
  
•••  
  
  
pilot. Esmeralda Cordovan-Cornell  
sphere. TOPAZ  
rank. Freedom Union – 05  
  
•  
  
"Things happen for a reason." Esmeralda doesn't have any qualms with sharing her innermost thoughts with the researcher in front of her, as well as the recording devices that will surely display every single angle of her mannerisms and habits to the other members of the pilot evaluation team. She worries the left edge of her lower lip for a few seconds before restating her point, eyes unnecessarily drawn to the nearly motionless fingers that are unobtrusively typing every single word she says and every single thought that she doesn't say out loud. "Every single thing that happens has a reason behind them."  
  
Fingers smoothly flow over the keyboard, noiselessly, and her evaluating researcher is silent. She presses onward with her answer to the question regarding her main guiding belief in life. She idly wonders if she's straying too far away from the question's main point, but there shouldn't be any right or wrong answers when it comes to personal beliefs.   
  
There shouldn't be.  
  
"Sometimes, the reasons don't become apparent quickly, or at all." That's the only explanation for the so-called impossible occurrences, for the so-called unfair injustices, that are befalling people in this world. "There's always a reason. We just don't see or understand them, a lot of times."  
  
There always is. She wholeheartedly believes that. She doesn't claim to understand all the reasons that lie in the shadows of the events that happen sequentially in this world, but she accepting the fact that there's a logical reason behind any action is one step to being a responsible individual. It's one step further away from being a complacent person satisfied with labeling any unfavorable outcome as something 'unreal', 'impossible' or 'unfair'.  
  
Things happen for a reason.  
  
There's a reason indeed for why a person like her, sheltered by loving parents and reliable friends, managed to succeed in getting selected to pilot the special SPHEREs that are tasked to protect the country. She's always been protected; that's why fate gave her a chance to protect others in return. There's also a reason why a person like her, buried neck-deep in her studies and pilot training, managed to look up at the exact time that a certain person entered the briefing room.   
  
There's always a reason.  
  
That's why—  
  
***  
  
"How was the assessment?"  
  
Esmeralda removes the outer coat that has all the emblems and symbols of being a SPHERE pilot, effectively ridding herself of her responsibilities for the next few hours before her mission. Routine pilot inspections are vital to a mission's success, but even she can feel fatigue from being questioned and assessed for six straight hours. She understands the higher-ups' concern about the stability of her emotions right now, but the only way she can completely answer their expectations is when she finishes her mission tomorrow without any trouble whatsoever.  
  
"A bit tiring," she replies honestly, not finding any reason to lie to the person in front of her, to the person who she fell in love with at first sight, to the person who's now her husband. "But I'm fine," she adds in order to alleviate the bubbling question about her wellbeing, "…better than fine, really."  
  
"Come here," Jasper murmurs, arms stretched out to welcome her into his arms. Esmeralda smiles as she allows herself to sink into her husband's waiting embrace, aware that this is the exact matter that the higher-ups are concerned about. They want to know if she can still do her job perfectly even if she has other things to think about, like wanting to prioritize someone else's safety and wellbeing instead of regarding her missions as her priority number one.  
  
"I'll need to leave by two in the morning," Esmeralda whispers softly into her husband's collar, "I'll take the right side, okay?"  
  
Jasper shrugs, the arms around her tightening for a split-second. "I don't mind if you wake me up."  
  
"But it's too early—"  
  
"I want to send you off," Jasper's neck grows warm and Esmeralda realizes that he's blushing, "…it's your first mission after our marriage, so. So I want to. Okay?"  
  
Esmeralda laughs a little, feeling the embarrassment infect her with wonderful happiness. This is exactly what the higher-ups are afraid of, for their pilots to become heavily invested in things other than their missions, because the lack of concentration can be fatal, if one isn't careful. This is exactly why her pre-mission assessment was especially grueling, but Esmeralda finds that she doesn't really mind the challenges that come her way, because there's surely a good reason for the things unfolding around her.  
  
That's what she believes.  
  
***  
  
Her mission summary states that this is just going to be a normal perimeter patrol on some unclaimed aerial territory atop the NEO-Atlantic Ocean. Though of course, given the amount of fuss and preparation that preceded her launching sequence earlier, it's very easy to see that her country's intention is to use her luck of-sorts against the enemy presently facing her.  
  
MORNING STAR, inappropriately matched by its deep charcoal paint, is Allemagne's number one SPHERE, piloted by Allemagne's number one pilot. Gloria is behind Morning Star's controls, undoubtedly also here for some perimeter patrol.  
  
Despite only ranking fifth, Esmeralda is always sent for missions against Allemagne's top pilot, only continuing the strange connection between her and Gloria. Most of Esmeralda's early missions have always ended with her having a non-fatal encounter with the enemy, a feat that isn't shared by anybody else with that many instances. Her higher-ups surely suspect something going on between the two of them, a cooperation pact perhaps, since she keeps on avoiding injuries whenever she's pitted against Gloria. She's been honest with her evaluators from the beginning: her success is only due to Gloria's principles and morals regarding the protection of all human life, even if it belongs to her enemy's.  
  
Today is quite different though, because instead of only the two of them, there's a SPHERE that barges in the middle of their match, a SPHERE that she dimly recognizes to belong to Archadia. Since this is an unclaimed territory quite far-flung from any of the existing countries, there's no reason for her to be surprised at seeing a representative from Archadia snooping around as well. She's more surprised to read the intent on the star-like SPHERE, to read the desire to defensively escape from this space. It almost stings her pride as a pilot, to see someone that cowardly, but she supposes that the Archadia pilot has some things she needs to protect more than her own integrity and pride.  
  
Her evaluators will surely appreciate a bonus gift, so Esmeralda readies herself to take the Archadia SPHERE hostage, or at least block its escape. Her TOPAZ is quite well-known for its speed, backed by the doubled engines on her SPHERE's legs, so she isn't worried about falling short of her plans. She sets the calculations for her SPHERE's motions with quick fingers, already anticipating her evaluators' words about her initiative to capture enemies for the sake of the country.  
  
All her calculations are easily thrown off though, when Gloria's face loads in front of her visual display immediately, blocking her sight of MORNING STAR raising both its hands in a gesture of placating surrender. She almost panics about some hacking intent from Allemagne, before she rather belatedly recalls that her SPHERE has already recognized the communication channel that Gloria uses and has already tagged it as one of the 'safe contacts'. It irks her, the way even her SPHERE assumes that she's buddy-buddy with Gloria even if all that's happened between them is share a couple of missions that finish peacefully and safely.   
  
It irks her to the point that she uncharacteristically blurts out harsh words the moment the three-way communication call finishes loading to include the Archadia pilot. "What the hell? What's the big idea, Ms. Number One?"  
  
There's a reason for this happening, but what she can't understand is why must the scared-looking sissy Archadia pilot be there to witness the strange relationship between her and Gloria, a weird connection that's earning her distrust from her higher-ups. She can't afford any more suspicions piling up on top of her shoulders, especially since they're already suspecting her of something more sinister. That's the only explanation behind the increased evaluations on her performances and the added surveillance on her actions.  
  
Gloria's gentle, unbetraying, smile alternates between making her feel serene and making her feel like she's going to get strangled with irritation. She can't begrudge Gloria of her actions though, because she knows, more than anyone, about the way Gloria believes in not harming anyone. Gloria is the only person who thinks like that in this entire wretched world, just as she's the only person who can knowingly allow her enemies to see her unhidden face and hear her unscrambled voice. She's completely honest in a way that Esmeralda can only feel envious about.  
  
There are a few moments that pass without any pilot saying a word to the three-way communication channel. Esmeralda watches the way the Archadia pilot's face is filled with a hunted expression unmasked by the low-level pixilation layered atop the video feed. Esmeralda thinks that it's her chance to catch Gloria off-guard, so that she can redeem herself in front of the higher-ups' eyes, so that she can prove to them that getting married this early in life doesn't make her a stupid teenager that doesn't know how to place her pilot duties above anything else, so that she can inform them that she's a person who deserves their trust.  
  
"I'd like to propose that we just continue with our missions without any fights or bloodshed." Gloria's gentle smile doesn't fade from her face, her blue eyes clear and untarnished by the unstable transmission signal. "There's no point having any scuffle for just a normal perimeter check, is there?"  
  
Esmeralda almost sighs at the way the Archadia pilot so obviously sinks to her pilot chair with such obvious relief. There's no doubt that the Archadia girl is expecting Gloria to suddenly demand some peace treaties or maybe some arms exchange, since the way Allemagne operates is clearly more focused in militaristic dominance. Esmeralda almost wants to shake Gloria by her shoulders so that she'll realize that while she's the number one pilot for now, Allemagne will surely not turn a blind eye on the way she handles her missions without killing anyone, almost an insult to Allemagne's bloody history of forcibly taking lives away from people who oppose them.  
  
"You're right. Let's just go on our respective missions, okay?"  
  
And the Archadia SPHERE backpedals hastily away, leaving without a second glance, without hesitation.   
  
Esmeralda almost calls out to her, so that she'll return, if only so that she won't be left alone with Gloria in the communication channel that now just contains the two of them.  
  
She reasons to herself that since the communication link has been opened by a third-party source, her SPHERE's recording mechanisms wouldn't work. She shakes her head, her hair swaying with the motion. She isn't good with secrets and she doesn't understand why she ends up keeping a whole chunk of them. It only makes her very vulnerable to her evaluators' piercing eyes and penetrating questions.  
  
There are a million and one reasons why she should terminate the signal between the two of them.  
  
"…What's wrong, Esmeralda? You look tired. Have you been feeling unwell?"  
  
There are a million and one reasons why she should stop speaking with the other pilot.  
  
"I—"  
  
But—  
  
***  
  
Esmeralda decreases her pace as she observes an odd occurrence at the other end of the launch hangar. Her eyesight is one of her rare assets, so to speak, so she can clearly see Ruby Alizarin limping away from her BLOODSTONE. If she remembers correctly, Ruby's mission isn't due to finish in a couple of hours, so it means either her mission ended prematurely or she's just really good at finishing off her opponents quickly.  
  
There's quite a huge distance between the two of them and there's quite a number of mechanics and engineers milling around the area. Even so, not a single person makes the slightest move to approach her limping form, not a single person ventures to assist her with going to the medical wing to get treatment for her injuries.  
  
Esmeralda frowns at the way Ruby Alizarin is treated with such blatant disapproval. But then again, there has to be a reason behind the cold treatment, since there's no way everyone in the headquarters will just, without any reason, unanimously agree into swinging between hostility and indifference when it comes to treating one of its precious pilots. There has to be something that Ruby Alizarin has done to elicit such intense disapproval.  
  
Judging from the whispered rumors that follow her wake, everybody agrees that Ruby Alizarin repeatedly sold her body in order to achieve the 02 position she has. Esmeralda isn't inclined to agree or disagree with that rumor, though there has to be a source, a beginning, for that type of nasty news to start, right? There's definitely a reason why everyone believes the rumored sluttiness rather than the overwhelming strength that Ruby displays.  
  
"Welcome back!" Jasper calls out to her, and Esmeralda easily pulls her attention away from their 02 pilot, shifts it effortlessly to focus on her husband's presence. Everybody in the headquarters is aware that the two of them got married recently, so nobody is really surprised to see Jasper welcome her back from her mission. She returns the hug that Jasper gives her, own hands wrapped securely around her husband's torso.  
  
She looks up to an unspecified scenery, but it's at that moment that time winds down infinitely slow, opening the door to her own reason for not entirely believing in the integrity of Ruby's soul and the power in Ruby's hands. She looks up, her chin resting on Jasper's right collarbone, and she meets Ruby's blazing green eyes dead-on. It's a gaze that's definitely drawn to her position, or rather, to the person wrapped in her gentle hold.  
  
Their eyes only meet for just one moment in the long, steady flow of time. but it's enough to remind Esmeralda why she can't really regard Ruby Alizarin with an emotion more favorable than cold indifference.  
  
Everything happens for a reason, Esmeralda believes so.  
  
That's why, there's definitely a meaning behind Ruby's gaze constantly drifting to where Jasper is.  
  
And that's why, Esmeralda can't approve of her existence.  
  
***  
  
Esmeralda pauses her quick strides away from the mission report conference room, as soon as she stumbles upon the training room filled with cheering pilot trainees. Since physical confrontations between pilots or trainees leads to an immediate dismissal from duty, so the crowd is definitely not watching a fight. Esmeralda discreetly takes a peek inside the training room to witness whatever's drawing this type of rabid attention from the crowd; her eyes widen in a mixture of surprise and understanding. The transfixed gazes of the crowd are justified then, since there's an epic sparring session ongoing inside.  
  
Aster Gainsboro is sparring against three former pilots who now serve as military trainers for the current pilots. The trio is well-known for their immense physical strength and fighting genius, but Aster is kicking their asses soundly. Judging from the lack of dripping sweat and heavy breathing on Aster's side, being outnumbered this much is still not enough of a challenge for him.  
  
This is just one of the countless occasions that remind Esmeralda of how perfect Aster is.   
  
Watching Aster effortlessly parry the blows being dealt to him only prompts Esmeralda to wonder, for possibly the twenty-seventh time, about Aster's love-life, or lack thereof. There's a myriad of options easily available for him to choose from, and that's not even counting the more secretive admirers that don't stalk the sparring trainings that Aster favors. Admirers from both genders bestow starry-eyed glances upon the country's number one pilot; it's not an exaggeration to claim that there's representative for each type across the entire spectrum of people-types.  
  
Yet Aster's perfection continues to be something that is limited to only himself and not shared to any sort of partner. Her viewpoint might be extremely biased towards having a relationship, but Esmeralda does believe that Aster's perfection can still be compounded by having a significant other in his life. After all, there really is something to be said about fighting for the sake of someone else; strength and power gained through wanting to protect someone else aside from yourself cannot be measured and cannot be defeated by a selfish, lonely power.   
  
She knows that best, because she knows that she's much stronger now, more powerful than herself without having met Jasper—even if there's no outright improvement in the pilot rankings whatsoever. It's her inner strength, she knows, just like she knows that she's destined to use that increased strength in order to protect the person most important to her.  
  
Esmeralda resumes walking then, because just think about Jasper is enough to make her want to see him even sooner. She pities Aster, a little bit, a little strangely, because he might be the best pilot produced by her country, but he remains far away from being leading a fulfilled life.  
  
***  
  
"Wanna try this?" Esmeralda waves the piece of artificial meat towards her husband, the strangely lavish servings terribly out-of-place with the usual government-mandated pilot diet. "I think this is supposed to be hybrid pork?"  
  
She obliges spoon-feeding Jasper the assortments of amuse-bouche stacked upon her plate. Normally she declines in outright participating in public displays of affection, but it's not like this is a business setting even if everyone is gathered in Freedom Union's grandest and most spacious hall.   
  
There had been a time, she remembers, when December 25 was celebrated for a reason related to some religion-related savior's birth, but the birthday being celebrated now belongs to someone famous in the entire country and maybe even the world. The event's person of honor is surrounded by countless admirers and circles of people from different levels of the country's social hierarchy.  
  
She's rather content with staying with her husband in one secluded corner of the hall, kept away from most of the hustle and bustle. She has finished greeting Aster and congratulating him for yet another year of standing on top of his own family line and the pilot ranking; she has completed her duty to personally hand their joint gift to one of Aster's many caretakers.  
  
Despite the fact that the table they're occupying is reserved for the pilots, only the two of them are left to hang around in this corner. Ruby disappeared from her seat as soon as the opening speeches concluded; Pearl and Jade giggled their way through the crowd as soon as the lights dimmed a tad to encourage a more casual atmosphere.   
  
…Oh.  
  
Narcissus is apparently still here, looking incredibly lost and surreally white amidst the dim atmosphere.  
  
"I'll get us more drinks," her husband murmurs against her cheek, before standing up to retrieve more drinks for their table.  
  
Esmeralda unthinkingly replies with some soft acknowledgement, mind still focused on observing Narcissus. Despite hailing from one of the most celebrated families in the country, Narcissus looks and acts harried and stressed and generally acting different from an ideal heir. To her knowledge, Narcissus is also a prime target for being ostracized and bullied by staff members and the second-tiered pilot trainees. More than pathetic, she considers the harsh treatment to be necessary in building courage and developing Narcissus' character further.  
  
Nothing in this world happens for no reason after all, so even the disappointing bullying has a role to fulfill, she's sure.  
  
"Do you want to try this?" Esmeralda offers the untouched artificial meat left on her plate, both as a gesture of goodwill and to break the uncomfortable silence that settles over their table.  
  
"Eh? Oh! Sorry, sorry, I wasn't paying attention!" Narcissus spews out a couple more nonsensical apologies, bowing his head so low that it almost knocks over the champagne flute on the tabletop. "Thank you for your offer! But I can't possibly eat your food! It's for you, after all! So sorry!"  
  
"…Right." Esmeralda smiles tightly, thinking that it isn't really a surprise that people are rather fond of being cruel to the teen in front of her. There's nothing that screams 'bully me!' harder than a frail-looking teenager with a severe doormat attitude after all. "Well, feel free to—"  
  
"Sorry!" Narcissus interrupts her, apparently still not finished with his litany of apologies. "It's not like I was rejecting your generous offer because I think it's like leftovers or something! It's not like I rejected your offer because I dislike you or think that you have germs or think that you already had your saliva all over the food! I swear!"  
  
"…"  
  
…It's not like she thought of those things either, but now that he mentioned it…  
  
"It's fine, there's nothing wrong with rejecting food offers—"   
  
"Oh no, I wasn't giving you any ideas or anything! I'm so sorry! I should stop talking now! Sorry, sorry!"  
  
"It's fine, really—"  
  
"Sorry!"  
  
"…"  
  
Even though Narcissus is technically one of her seniors when it comes to piloting—not only is he from a renowned family, he was also recruited much earlier compared to her—Esmeralda has never once thought of the other as someone ranked above her. It's mainly due to that attitude, but Esmeralda didn't think that Narcissus was this… annoying. It's probably because she didn't have a lot of opportunities to interact with him, but now that she has experienced how exhausting it is to handle Narcissus, she isn't wishing for any further encounters between them.  
  
"Yo, sissy," a voice remarks rather nastily from somewhere behind Esmeralda, prompting her to crane her neck back to tell off the person intruding on the pilots' table, surprising her with the knowledge that it's one of the second-tiered pilots who said that. From the corner of her eye, she notices Narcissus cowering and shivering, most likely out of fear, leaving no guesses as to who was being addressed with the demeaning nickname.  
  
Esmeralda doubts that her destiny dictates her to defend the damsel in distress in this dilemma, but it doesn't sit well with her conscience and dignity to simply allow this to continue. Nevertheless, she doesn't rise up from her seat to chase—Robin? Yes, his name is Robin, she thinks—away, if only for the sake of maintaining peace in this lavish birthday party. She waits for the right moment to diffuse the conflict brewing, but the proper timing doesn't reach her, as the crowd around their table thickens.  
  
She does rise to her feet then, looking for her husband and momentarily ignoring the situation at hand. He isn't the type to stand out in a crowd, so she encounters considerable trouble locating him. He's taking awfully long to get drinks for them, but it's not like she can blame him because it really is becoming quite suffocating on her table.  
  
"I'm sorry—"  
  
"…Ah, can I have a glass of champagne?"  
  
Esmeralda whips her head back to glance at Narcissus and at the newest addition to the vicinity, almost giving herself a nasty whiplash. Confused and grateful at once, she heaves a sigh of relief at Aster's sudden appearance. If there's anyone who can effortlessly dampen the rising tension, it's definitely Aster. She arranges her smile to something a little less strained, before she offers a glass of the bubbly drink to the birthday celebrant.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Y-You're welcome," she almost automatically replies, slightly taken aback with the polite and oh-so-genuine remark. 'Thank you' is part of normal social decorum, but there's something more with the way Aster says it, as though he's truly, completely grateful for her help… with giving him the glass of champagne that he wants.  
  
"Are you enjoying the party?"  
  
"Yes, the program is wonderful and the food is excellent—"  
  
"I'm sorry! I don't think I managed to greet you earlier! I don't think I managed to hand you your gift either? So sorry!"   
  
Narcissus' way of speaking is a combination of being energetic and nervous as hell. It makes for rather poor conversation and Esmeralda thinks of a way to salvage the situation by steering Aster's (and the surrounding crowd's) attention back to her insipid commentary about the ongoing celebration.   
  
"That's fine," Aster replies diplomatically, giving the aura of absolutely serenity, like he's used to handling nutcases like Narcissus, "I won't take offense as long as you greet me now?"  
  
"I'm so sorry for the lateness! It's not like I wanted to delay this purposely! It's not like I didn't want to greet you personally! It's not like I didn't want to give you my gift just because it will pass through some stringent security checks before it reaches you! It's not like I thought it was absurd that you still have caretakers solely for your gifts even though you're already this old!"  
  
…Esmeralda didn't think of those reasons either, but judging from the way the crowd is collectively glaring coolly at Narcissus' hastily-apologizing form, everyone is now pinning those far-fetched, exaggerated, reasons to Narcissus' actions.  
  
"Then let me amend my earlier statement," Aster's smile retains its calming effect, bright and sparkly even if Narcissus keeps on shooting himself on his foot with his words, "as long as you greet me and give me your birthday present now, I won't take offense?"  
  
Esmeralda wonders if Aster's smile is hiding his real emotions that are seething at getting insulted rather blatantly without the other person being entirely conscious of his actions and its consequences. Aster doesn't strike her as the type to harbor dark thoughts because he looks too clear and too brilliant for that. She can't blame anyone though, no matter how saintly they are, for feeling the tiniest bit irritated at the words tumbling out of Narcissus' mouth.  
  
"Oh, okay, okay, sorry!" Narcissus bows down again, his loose and messy braid appearing mediocre in front of Aster's similarly braided hair. "…Happy birthday, Aster Gainsboro!"   
  
Robin snorts from behind her, as Narcissus retrieves a fist-sized gift from his baggy pants' pocket. Esmeralda's smile wanes as she takes in the off-color wrapper and the dismal size of the present, something that definitely doesn't match Aster and his status. This isn't helping Esmeralda's doubts about Narcissus being a part of the Duke family—maybe he's an illegitimate kid or an adopted prisoner of war? There's just no way will a rich kid settle for handing out pathetic gifts like that.  
  
"Thank you," Aster carefully retrieves the object hidden with poor wrapping technique, the genuine tone in his voice unwavering even if he's surely stunned by the unbelievable shabbiness of the gift, "…Narcissus."  
  
Aster doesn't display the gift for anyone else's eyes. Esmeralda isn't even half-curious to discover what type of useless thing Narcissus bestowed upon the person who already has everything.   
  
"I'm so sorry for the lateness!" Narcissus apologizes for the nth time, his upbeat voice contrasting sharply with his self-critical words and his self-deprecating personality. "Ah, I'm so useless!"  
  
"Thank you for coming here," Aster murmurs before quickly granting Narcissus a brisk comradely hug, "I really appreciate it."  
  
And just like that, Aster moves away from their table, taking the thick crowd of admirers, caretakers and government officials along with him.  
  
Esmeralda heaves a loud sigh of relief then, thankful that things remained tactful and peaceful despite Narcissus' airhead behavior and crass statements disrupting each moment. She settles back to her seat, strangely spent even if nothing physically demanding has occurred. She jolts a little bit when her husband's comforting hand brushes by her shoulders.  
  
"Hey, sorry for the wait," Jasper looks sheepish and mildly curious, "it was really hard to return to this table…"  
  
"No worries, it is fine," Esmeralda murmurs, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms against her skirt.  
  
She gratefully accepts the tall glass of the fruity alcoholic drink her husband managed to get for her, hoping the effects will get hold of her quickly so she can start relaxing again.  
  
"Oh, hey! I didn't notice we have champagne here!"  
  
Esmeralda almost replies that they've always had champagne available on their table, but then her gaze swings to the untouched drink at the edge where Aster was standing just a couple of minutes ago. She was preoccupied with watching out for Narcissus and his unthinking words, to the point that she barely noticed Aster not even taking a sip from the drink he personally requested.  
  
…Why did he even come here anyway?  
  
While it's true that this is a table reserved for pilots, Aster's seat is on the VIP side of the floor, surrounded by the country's top officials and the heads of the main economic forces of Freedom Union. There was no logic behind Aster's sudden appearance then, as though summoned by some outside force in order to interfere with the impending fight between Robin and Narcissus. Was it completely coincidental then, dictated by destiny?  
  
"That drink is reserved," she murmurs rather secretively.  
  
Everything happens for a reason, so she definitely believes that there's a reason behind all of the things happening in this world, no matter how trivial.  
  
She eyes Narcissus and his hunched posture and his messy appearance.  
  
Esmeralda doesn't quite roll her eyes, but she actively ignores the other teen's presence then, deciding to focus on the more important things.  
  
There's a reason for the irritating behavior that Narcissus exhibits, but Esmeralda has no interest whatsoever in finding out more about that.  
  
***  
  
There must be a reason for the bold indifference practically coating Pearl Duke from head to toe, a strange sort of confidence regarding facing an unknown enemy. Well, it isn't like Grand Romania is a new country that managed to suddenly appear like some unwanted fungus popping out from humus—but the concept still applies, somehow. Information about Grand Romania's new technology spreads throughout the intelligence network like wildfire, the stolen video recording about one of the initial prototype tests eliciting a mixture of bewilderment and terror. Esmeralda half-expects Grand Romania's propaganda team to be the one responsible for the leakage of their own training simulation, because it's an incredibly effective way of controlling the world's view on their current standing.  
  
Nevertheless, the method behind the information leak barely matters in this case. The important truth is that Grand Romania has somehow managed to grab a fearsome power capable of transforming their military into a dominant force in the expansive playing field consisting of the entire planet.  
  
Esmeralda hides her sneeze behind a rumpled handkerchief. Rubbing her hands together isn't enough to warm her extremities, an unpleasant reminder that the world is steadily getting colder. While the skies have never been particularly sunny or clear in the last couple hundred years, nothing beats the nearly constant darkness of the heavens nowadays, almost as if the earth has already started to show its fatigue and has exhaustedly begun to sleep. Even with the thermostat controlling the headquarters' room temperature, cold winds from outside the tower manage to pierce through the thick walls without much effort.  
  
This strategy meeting is supposed to inform the pilots about the recent situation and obtain inputs from them, but nobody is forthcoming with suggestions regarding handling Grand Romania's most recent development. Esmeralda watches Pearl Duke from the corner of her eye, the Duke family's heiress standing out from the black backdrop of the briefing room. While most of the pilots remained silent all throughout the meeting, Pearl actually shared her opinion that basically amounts to just not caring at all regarding Grand Romania.  
  
Indifference, Esmeralda believes, is hardly the right solution to a country outright challenging the world to a fight, but the main point of this meeting is to gather opinions and thoughts, not to criticize them.  
  
Esmeralda snakes her right hand inside her left sleeve, crawling up her wrist until she reaches an elbow.  
  
She does agree that there's no point going after a country that hasn't made an official declaration of war against them, especially since that country is neighbors with the most powerful country in the entire world. Grand Romania will easily get crushed by Central Tower, so there's not much point in burdening themselves with extra hassle.  
  
…There's a reason though, she's certain, for Pearl's unusually indifferent stance.  
  
Everything happens for a reason, after all.    
  
***  
  
Esmeralda never once indulged in any sort of interest regarding politics and diplomacy, which is why she's rather puzzled by the formation of a tentative not-really-alliance with Central Tower. Strategically, there's nothing better than gaining the backing of the most powerful country in the world. Not everything is that straightforward though. There's nothing more dangerous than a lukewarm agreement, after all.  
  
…Though of course, she's allowed to change her mind given ample evidence.  
  
Just the sight of Jade Payne—one of the most arrogant person she's ever had the displeasure of meeting—practically salivating and foaming by the mouth as she's relentlessly plundered by that savage monster immediately after the introductions, is enough to render Esmeralda motionless with disbelief and nausea.   
  
Esmeralda is the last person who'll ever deny the strength of love and its capability to turn anyone's mind into mush. But there's a limit to allowing your emotions control your actions, and to Esmeralda that limit guards the boundary between self and duty. What Jade is doing is unforgivably irresponsible, because at this point, this diplomatic visit and idle talk can easily just be clever ruses to divert their attention from Central Tower's real motives.  
  
…She isn't very bright when it comes to intellectual strategies, but even she can smell footprints of obvious betrayal.  
  
If Rei turns out to be really head over heels in love with Jade, then Esmeralda couldn't be happier for the two of them.  
  
As it stands now, however, the possibility that Jade isn't being played around with is abysmally small.  
  
There's a reason for the happenings of the world.  
  
Maybe this will serve as a lesson for Jade that even people of her rank and status can become toys in the hands of someone even more influential. Maybe this will serve as a lesson for Freedom Union to sharpen their sense of suspicion so that a second betrayal will never happen in the future. Maybe this will serve as a lesson for her to start having more faith in her fellow human beings and their trustworthiness. Maybe this will serve as a lesson that she won't ever comprehend even if it takes her entire lifetime.  
  
There are a number of possibilities and only one of them true.  
  
Esmeralda resumes walking, briskly removing her presence from the awkward scene with silent footsteps. She isn't a voyeur so she refuses to participate as an audience any longer for Rei and Jade's little rendezvous secluded in the small area that serves as the security cameras' blind spot.  
  
This world is filled with such mysterious.  
  
Esmeralda hurries to her room, intent on locking herself up inside her quarters until her husband returns.  
  
…Everything happens for a reason.  
  
[Because if there's no reason, then why is she even here?]  
  
***  
  
[Esmeralda's happiness is with Jasper.]  
  
There's no other way around it.  
  
It's love at first sight for her—she remembers the day vividly, March 19 of AC683, Jasper's birthday—and Jasper has admitted that it's the same for him.  
  
Since that day when they laid their eyes on each other, Esmeralda has loved Jasper with her whole heart.  
  
[Esmeralda's happiness is only with Jasper.]  
  
She didn't ask any unnecessary questions about Jasper's past, because the Jasper she fell in love with and continues to fall in love with is the person in front of her, the present Jasper, not the past, not the future, not the in-between. There's always the possibility that there's a girl or two in Jasper's life before their meeting, but Esmeralda doesn't care about those details. She has never intended to begrudge Jasper of having a complete life before meeting her.  
  
Nevertheless, being married and spending life together are bound to introduce details that Esmeralda doesn't even think to ask.  
  
[Esmeralda's happiness is only with Jasper.]  
  
She doesn't want anyone else.  
  
She will not ever want anyone else.  
  
She will never reach a point where she will think about wanting anyone else.  
  
[Esmeralda's happiness is Jasper.]  
  
She's heavily aware that more dangerous than Jade's completely blind love towards Rei who will mostly betray her heartlessly, than Pearl's suffocating indifference regarding the affairs of the world, than Ruby's lack of morals when it comes to forming relationships, than the world seemingly striving to kill off all its inhabitants—there's a traitor in their midst.  
  
She firmly believes in the image Jasper paints vibrantly over his surface—a jolly, loyal, capable pilot representing Freedom Union—which is why she effortlessly uncovers the true face behind the brightly colored masquerade. She reads the dissatisfaction and smells the betrayal long before they flounder before surfacing up Jasper's expressions. More dangerous than possibilities of betrayals is the definite messenger from hell—a spy from another organization.  
  
She observes her husband more critically nowadays, because there's no telling when Freedom Union would start recognizing the signs of a mole in their ranks, because there's no time left to devise a plan B-C-D-Z in order to save Jasper from the brink of his lies' collapse. She doesn't know details about the rogue organization her husband is working for, but it must be something fairly big and important, since they were able to smoothly add Jasper into the ranks of the second-most powerful kingdom in the world.  
  
She's being completely disloyal to her country.  
  
But it's for the sake of protecting the one person she considers most important, she doesn't mind throwing everything away.  
  
[Esmeralda is Jasper's.]  
  
…Forever.  
  
***  
  
It's been:  
  
— [one] year  
— [two] months  
— [three] weeks  
— [four] days  
— [five] hours  
— [six] seconds  
— [infinite] moments  
  
—Since the two of them got married.  
  
***  
  
Everything happens for a reason—  
—and now the pendulum to her story swings to a staggering stop.  
  
***  
  
Everything happens for a reason—  
  
NO.  
  
There's no possible explanation for the scenery so shamelessly displayed in front of her eyes.  
  
[Esmeralda's right knee shakes violently, the tremors running up and down on her muscles and bones freely. It gives out after a few drawn-out seconds, the sickening crunch of the kneecap collapsing against the metal floors somewhat tapered by the sticky, viscous fluid covering the entire area.]  
  
There's no such reason that can fit for the scene in front of her.  
  
[Esmeralda's left leg resembles a half-solid jelly: unstable and unsupported. Her arms hang uselessly limp by her sides, unable to even feel the twitchy tremors that travel up to her shoulders. Even her lips join in the seemingly common act of uncontrollably shivering and shaking, both in numb terror and blank-white-anger.]  
  
There's just no way.  
  
[Esmeralda barely registers the Freedom Union security soldiers gathering by the open doorway behind her, because her eyes remain transfixed on the mangled body of her husband, pathetically still in the middle of a crimson lake, and she can't even bring her limbs to make coordinated movements so she can at least close her husband's wide-with-terror eyes. There's a slight movement to the left of her husband's body, a movement that her gaze immediately follows. She looks at Narcissus, at the way the tips of Narcissus' shoes barely touches her husband's dislocated shoulder, at the way pale fingers are somehow loosely wrapped around a gun pointed directly to her husband's nearly-unrecognizable face.]  
  
NO.  
  
[Esmeralda's mind is eerily blank.]  
  
Everything happens for a reason.  
  
But there's no reason that can ever explain this.  
  
"YOU FUCKING MURDERER! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO HIM?! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"  
  
***  
  
"This is a warning, Miss Esmeralda Cordovan. Please refrain from using violence in this court—"  
  
"MY NAME IS ESMERALDA CORNELL. I'M MARRIED, DAMN IT! MY SURNAME IS CORNELL—! AND I'M GOING TO FUCKINGKILLYOU—!"  
  
"Very well, Mrs. Esmeralda Cornell: This is the second warning. Please refrain from engaging in violent acts or else you'll be charged with Disruption of Order, punishable with a minimum of five weeks in the maximum security prison—"  
  
"FUCK YOU—LET ME GO—!"  
  
"Esmeralda," Aster Gainsboro, the number one pilot of Freedom Union, the same person that holds one of the highest seats in the court's jury, attempts to soothe the furious woman's violent outbursts, "you need to calm down."  
  
"CALM DOWN?! HOW THE HELL CAN I CALL DOWN?!"  
  
"This court is being held to investigate the circumstances surrounding the unfortunate incident yesterday regarding Jasper Cornell's—"  
  
"DON'T YOU DARE SAY IT!"  
  
"…Alright, I won't." Aster takes a half-step back, giving the grieving teenager more of her personal space. Without Aster's form shielding her from privy eyes, Esmeralda's bloodshot eyes and tearstained face is completely visible for anyone who'd care to take a look at the pathetic state she's reduced to. "But you'll need to calm down. Sort out your thoughts, look at this objectively—I know this is extremely hard to do right now. But you'll need to be strong. So that the culprit can be found and can be punished accordingly."  
  
The entire court is silent, intently watching the unfolding drama explode into a cacophony of chaotic cries and curses. The other pilots are seated on the jury seats as well, while the rest of the court is filled with all of the justice specialists of the country, with the addition of some more high-ranking officials. Freedom Union is rather stringent in implementing their policy of banning any sort of violence or brutal intent towards any other comrade—the mere fact that one of their main-tier pilots got murdered in their own territory is already a huge dent against the country's collective pride. As though to spice up this proceeding, the main suspect's identity belongs to no one other than the next generation of the highly-regarded Duke family.   
  
Simply put, Jasper Cornell's murder case is one of the most high-profile cases to ever land Freedom Union's courts.  
  
"…Culprit? Find? HA?!" Esmeralda calms down visibly, her expression twisted by madness relaxing to a firmer, more composed countenance. The psychotic snarl that nearly broke her face in half earlier is now gone. The hoarse screaming voice is now replaced by a low, rumbling tone. "The culprit is that bastard Narcissus, isn't he? What more evidence do you need?"  
  
Aster's expression looks almost pinched, as though it's physically painful to say the words aloud. "It's true that Narcissus is at the crime scene—"  
  
"…with a gun in hand."  
  
"—Yes, with a gun in hand. But the gun found in Narcissus' possession doesn't match the murder weapon according to the preliminary autopsy reports. There's no motive and there's also no way Narcissus could have overpowered Jasper—"  
  
"…WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?! Narcissus was standing in front of my husband, smoking gun in hand! Security camera records show Narcissus being the only one in the room with my husband before his death! WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT NARCISSUS IS A GODDAMN MURDERER?!"  
  
"I didn't kill Jasper with that gun! I didn't kill anyone with that gun! I didn't kill any person! I'm so sorry!"  
  
For the first time since the beginning of the trial session—and possibly with the worst timing—Narcissus speaks up, teary-eyed, with a purpling bruise on his cheek, courtesy of Esmeralda successfully landing a brutal punch to his face before the court guards managed to react to her quick attack.   
  
"This is a warning, Mr. Narcissus Duke. You are not allowed to issue statements until you are permitted to do so by the court—"  
  
"Oh, sorry! Sorry! I just wanted to let Esmeralda know that the only reason I had a gun in my hand was because I only picked that gun up by mistake because it's just there, you know? And before I knew it, it already fired and there's recoil and then I notice Jasper dead even though I didn't really see him properly—"  
  
"This is the second warning, Mr. Narcissus Duke. You are not allowed to issue statements—"  
  
"Just shut the hell up, Narcissus! You're a disgrace!"  
  
"This is a warning, Ms. Pearl Duke. Please refrain from participating in arguments happening out of the jury box—"  
  
"Let's all calm down, everyone!" Aster Gainsboro is technically also disobeying the rule about not causing any sort of disturbance, especially out of the jury box which is supposedly his only allowable territory, but the main judge is only grateful that the charismatic young man is able to silence every member of court without resorting to nitpicking and going through the entire rulebook and handing out punishments. "Let's make this an orderly proceeding, shall we?"  
  
Aster leaves the seething Esmeralda on her seat as attending doctors effectively strap her to her seat, injecting her with depressants. It's rather inhumane to resort to controlling one's reactions through pharmaceuticals, but there's no point in allowing the victim's stress level to shoot high up, especially since there's no way she'll be able to calm herself down without any external influence. Instead, Aster makes his way to the suspect's stand, because while Narcissus is way more talkative, he's almost much easier to silence.  
  
"Narcissus, I believe you didn't do it," Aster soothingly reassures his fellow pilot with his words, sounding totally genuine that nobody doubts Aster's conviction and belief, even if everybody has plenty of qualms about accepting Narcissus as completely innocent amidst the floating allegations, "and so that everybody else will believe you, I'll need you to stay silent until the judge asks for your statement. So that nobody can misinterpret your words and trap you into a corner. Understand?"  
  
This time, since Aster is stage-whispering to Narcissus at a rather close range, nobody else is able to witness the brief moment when a strange sort of realization dawns on Narcissus' usually-clueless face. It is but an ephemeral moment, because the dense cluelessness settles back rather snugly against Narcissus' wide-eyed face. Aster doesn't leave immediately after, almost as if he's waiting for some sort of acknowledgement or response from the harried-looking suspect.  
  
Moments pass in relatively undisturbed, but highly-charged silence.  
  
"I think we can start the trial now," Aster tells the head judge with a grim smile, before returning to his reserved seat.  
  
The head judge clears his throat rather loudly, no complaints whatsoever with getting bossed around by the Gainsboro heir.   
  
"We hereby start this trial—"  
  
***  
  
YES.  
  
Everything happens for a reason.  
  
The remote-controlled pod's original mission is to be used when disposing radioactive chemicals or garbage that's otherwise extremely hazardous to the surroundings and to Freedom Union's inhabitants. Today, in order to deliver justice upon monsters who don't deserve to be treated as human beings, the remote-controlled pod is going to be delivering and disposing of garbage into the other side of the world. It's almost a fitting conclusion for a useless waste to be disposed of like its fellow garbage.  
  
It wasn't easy to reach this conclusion—she had to fight with all she had, just so she could make them see that she's right and they're all wrong about Narcissus.  
  
YES.  
  
Nevertheless, she and her truth have prevailed.  
  
The idea of robbing Narcissus of his five senses before he's packaged inside the pod came from Pearl—which explains the three layers of bandages around the other's gouged-out eyes, the ear mufflers covering the ears harboring pierced eardrums, the tubes plugged directly into twin nostrils so that oxygen can be delivered directly into the other's airways, the gag around the other's mouth to make sure that he doesn't bite his tongue and escape from this living torture, the numbing liquid that's slowly filling the cramped cylinder where the other will be packed into. The idea of packaging Narcissus like some compressed garbage came from Jade—a situation that pleases her greatly.  
  
Aster's quiet suggestion after the jury's verdict had ended with a majority vote against Narcissus was to hold Jasper's 'heroes' funeral' as soon as possible, but Esmeralda postponed that. For one, she isn't thrilled with the thought of letting Jasper rest at some place far away from her. Another reason is that she won't be able to face Jasper straight if she can't even report to him that she has successfully avenged him.  
  
YES.  
  
With the amount of restraints and drugs in Narcissus' system, it will be impossible for him to flail around or even move an inch while he's getting dumped into the Black Seas—the dark oceanic water mass that stretches out from the shadow of the Pillar of Despair. There's no solid proof about the Black Seas' hellish conditions, but from the records of the country's earliest navigators and explorers, the Black Seas have long represented agonizing terror second only to the Pillar's.   
  
Everything happens for a reason.  
  
Narcissus Duke, despite being an annoying weakling that has a penchant for spewing out words that implicate himself, is now getting the punishment he deserves.  
  
In just a few moments, he'll be sent plummeting in a fantastic crash against the Black Seas.  
  
…At this point, Esmeralda cares very little even if somebody is to suddenly barge into this execution with cries about discovering the real culprit behind Jasper's… incapacity to move.  
  
Everything happens for a reason, but she doesn't have to understand the reason, right?  
  
YES.  
  
There's a reason for Narcissus to deserve all of these sufferings.  
  
And that's more than enough for her.  
  
***  
  
It's been:  
  
— [one] year  
— [two] months  
— [three] weeks  
— [four] days  
— [five] hours  
— [six] seconds  
— [infinite] moments  
  
—Since the two of them got married.  
  
It's been more than that, she thinks, maybe, she thinks.  
  
It doesn't matter, does it?  
  
In her mind, it's always been: one year—two months—three weeks—four days—five hours—six seconds—endless moments since the two of them got married.  
  
That day—today—every day—time stopped in her world.  
  
The pendulum that swings with each passage of time through her fingers has stopped, as though weighed down by her heavy heart.  
  
"Hey, Jasper," she calls out to the mirror in front of her, cracked into countless pieces so that she can only see a distortion that can manage to pass for Jasper if she closes her eyes hard enough. "I have a mission early tomorrow morning. It's a start of a war. My war. Do you want me to wake you up?"  
  
There's never an answer recently.  
  
There's never been an answer since that day.  
  
"Oh, you're such a sleepyhead." Esmeralda scolds her husband, caressing the edges of the broken mirror lightly so that she doesn't cut herself any more than necessary. "Fine, I won't wake you up."  
  
She's starting to say those same words over and over again.  
  
Jasper's becoming a sleep-monster.  
  
Not that she'll love him less for such a trivial change in his character.  
  
"I love you."  
  
And when she squeezes her eyes hard enough, when she covers her ears with bloodstained fingers, she hears a reply from across the mirrors.  
  
[Only it isn't an iloveyou.]  
  
•

 **END of eighth rotation;**  
 _the funeral of a lover._   
  
•••


	9. turn 09: ninth nullification

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 09: ninth nullification_  
  
(—nevermore—)  
  
•••

 _pilot._ Gloria Shkval  
 _sphere._ MORNING STAR  
 _rank._ Allemagne – 01  
  
•  
  
The world is worth protecting.  
  
Each year that crawls past seems to teem with every possible misfortune known to mankind, but Gloria believes that the world remains worthy of being protected, of being nourished, of being fought for. After Herzog Kingdom's collapse and the chaos that followed afterwards, the world has continued to slowly march to a definite conclusion that only included wars and more wars. Gloria believes that it isn't too late to try to turn back the tracks of time, or maybe at least attempt to steer the roads to a place that harbors paradise.  
  
In heavy contrast to her country's ideals and history, Gloria believes, with her entire being, on not killing anyone. As the number one pilot, she's expected to uphold Allemagne's values and principles, but she just can't bring herself to find anything worthwhile in killing someone just because they happened to belong to the opposite side of the war. Gloria doesn't mind defeating the enemies, because she does believe that her country is capable of leading the entire world into that paradise, but she also believes that even when at war, any deaths, including the enemies', are always one step further away from peace. And since she's fighting so that there will come a day when the entire world will be led back to peace, she isn't going to kill anyone.  
  
No matter what.


	10. turn 10: tenth throne

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 10: tenth throne_  
  
(—trojan—)  
  
•••  
  
 _pilot._ Isabelline Noir  
 _sphere_. AIR  
 _rank_. Kingdom of Thrones – 02   
  
•  
  
For successfully bridging the gap between the economic and political goals of the Kingdom with the ambitions of the far-off land of Allemagne: 100 points~!  
  
The year 685 is a good year for her, with many accomplishments and a perfect mission record. There are no changes in the overall pilot ranking but she isn't concerned about the number emblazoned on her coat. Overall ranking of physical and mental capabilities place her at second place, though theory is always much different than the application of said strengths. She's contented with producing ace results that are way beyond the expectations set for her position.  
  
Just look at her most recent accomplishment. She's the one who had the most involvement regarding the secret alliance forged between the Kingdom of Thrones and Allemagne, an accomplishment that not even their number one pilot can pretend to brag about.  
  
…Of course, she can go ahead and spread things about her being the brains behind the entire operation and maybe stress that it's completely her genius that bent the other country's officials' decisions into something that would favor their Kingdom more. But she isn't the type to parade useless, senseless lies that can easily be discovered.  
  
While she isn't going to start announcing the things she did, including sizzling details on how she steadily wore less and less with each meeting that happened, she isn't going to start denying anything either. It's been so long since humanity has started to walk the earth and build societies, but humans collectively hasn't been able to get rid of the instantaneous desire to judge people based on their physical looks. And one look at her miniskirt, thigh-high boots, and tight, low-cut top is more than enough to form an image about her and her promiscuity.   
  
Everyone already assumed that she seduced all of Allemagne's higher-ups, that's why she was able to close the negotiations quickly—and they would be right to assume that.  
  
Nevertheless, it's still a victory for their Kingdom, that's why nobody will dare to voice out protests about her methods.  
  
…That's why it's a solid 100 points.  
  
•


	11. turn 11: eleventh eve

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 11: eleventh eve_  
  
(—ethereality—)  
  
•••


	12. turn 12: twelfth transparency

•••  
  
**Pillar of Despair**  
_turn 12: twelfth transparency_  
  
(—transformation—)  
  
•••

  
  
**Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting**  
**665th anniversary**  
**1 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Utopia Tower**  
**[arrival of guests]**

  
•••  
  
title. Grand Romania's Highest King  
name. Cesar Black  
age. ???  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 5B [Utopia Tower]  
  
•  
  
Display of power and influence at its finest is what this is all about, truly. Every single corner of the arrival dock and the entirety of the minute but extremely efficient country is decked with welcome banners and fancy holograms that showcase either fancy engineered images or helpful guides and maps to help everyone navigate on their own. And just as every single square inch of the small kingdom is filled with pictures and words that spread cheer and good vibes, underneath all the expensive decorations are the countless layers of security systems that detect and record every single event that occurs inside the country's perimeter.  
  
Oh, how he longs to crush Herzog Kingdom completely.  
  
He's been one of the usual guests to the annual meeting of the Alliance for countless years now, and his desire to actually take this country into his hands and make everything crumble. He doesn't fancy himself as stretching out prematurely to the Herzog Kingdom territory, but he just wants the perfect little nation to fall from its place higher than anyone else's.  
  
Grand Romania is also quite compact, but the efficiency with the government and the synchrony with all the branches of decision-making aren't even in the same league as Herzog Kingdom's. It's almost enviable if it isn't so vexing.  
  
He leaves his thick winter coat on his shuttle seat, not even bothering to spare it a glance and double-check if it didn't cascade down the shuttle floor. He has assistants trailing behind him for those little things; even if he somehow didn't bring his very attentive assistants on this very important mission, Herzog Kingdom is quite well-known for their helper robots that fuss and attend to everyone's needs in a completely thorough but admirably unobtrusive manner.  
  
Again, it's almost amazing if it isn't so frustratingly perfect.  
  
He retrieves his identification badge from the hands of the helper robot milling by his peripheral vision and generously allows one of his servants to pin the badge on his shirt's breast pocket. Donning on the identification badge is akin to surrendering himself completely to the hands of Herzog Kingdom; it's a twenty-four-seven tracker that has a three-sixty-degree vision range: his privacy is utterly defenseless against the security system that will track his every single move until the end of the annual meeting.  
  
It's part of the whole 'we come in peace' thing that this meeting is supposed to promote. He's willing to bet a few years of his life that not a single person who comes to these annual meetings is there without any ulterior motives or without any thoughts that contradict the notion of peace and equality that the Alliance is so fond of preaching about. It's unthinkable, after all, for even a brainless child, to wholeheartedly believe in altruism and peace when the world outside isn't even habitable, when even the air outside seems intent on spreading ill will and death.  
  
He steps on the light transporter field that appears near his feet, maintaining his calm when his assistants all gush and squeal about how amazing the technology is, even while breathlessly trying to slow down their heartbeats that spiked during the initial acceleration of the transporter. He gives a nearly imperceptible nod to his wife and son, who are travelling on their own transporter a couple of paces away from his. His wife returns his barely-there acknowledgement with a dry smile that's just the right mixture of inbred social graces and experience-bred spite. His son is too busy looking so embarrassingly awestruck about the displays and decorations around him to even notice his parents' silent marital dispute.  
  
Arrival Dock 5C is just a couple of staggered meters ahead: the representative is just about to step out of his own shuttle transporter, the helper robots already lined up just outside the sliding doors. The C-labeled docks are reserved, if he recalls correctly, for representatives from Freedom Union. He frowns as the sliding doors remain tightly shut, robbing him of the opportunity to spot his contemporaries before the start of the actual meeting.  
  
Freedom Union has been pushed to third place because of Central Tower's rise to power—it's very likely that they sent the most cutthroat of all the country's leaders so that they can retrieve their position back at the top. If he's lucky, Freedom Union might have even sent out the notoriously secretive head of the Duke family, a main driving force when it comes to economic and military deals all over the world.  
  
His frown grows deeper when the transporter field he's using completely passes Dock 5C without him managing to get a glimpse of Freedom Union's main representative.  
  
It's only a matter of time before someone brings Herzog Kingdom down to its rightful place. It's only a matter of time before this façade of peace and diplomacy stays, just as it's only a matter of time before the world's countries reveal that they're all building and upgrading more SPHEREs than the sanctioned numbers set out by the Alliance. Grand Romania is hardly an exception: instead of contenting itself with possessing two SPHEREs that are supposedly only used for defensive combat, it's already on the final stages of testing the fifth SPHERE that has deadly offensive capabilities. It's more than likely that none of the Alliance members are following the rules supposedly set up to maintain the power balance between the countries.  
  
He's already supervising the recruitment and selection process for the next set of pilots who will be trained to handle the excessive strength and toxicity of the newly-developed SPHEREs. The candidates that he has reviewed so far lack a certain amount of power, of potential, but he isn't worried. He's fairly convinced that there are brats living in this era who have the right amount of drive, confidence, bloodlust and ambition needed to ignore the enormous physical strain on one's body once the synchronization starts.  
  
Grand Romania researchers are working day and night in order to unearth and decipher the blueprint that is buried underneath the country's bedrock. It's only a matter of time before those symbols and figures begin to look like concrete plans for absolute domination. Once that happens, they should be able to make newer and better SPHEREs that can match and overpower the rest of the world's more advanced SPHEREs.  
  
It's only a matter of time, he tells himself to calm down the burning feeling low in his gut.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, there will be a nondescript earthquake that dances slowly and surely along the earth's fault lines… even if he knows that the earthquake will just be the beginning of the shattering of several landmasses… even if he knows that the Herzog Kingdom will fall even without much interference from him and his country, without even giving out any indication or any clues as to how it will happen… even if he knows—)  
  
—Cesar Black just frowns even deeper and thinks that he really wants to dominate the world.  
  
•  
  
title. Sienna Navajo     
name. AA9999  
age. 6  
location. Herzog Kingdom: underground border gate [Unknown Tower]  
  
•  
  
Eyes closed, limbs bound, mouth shut: that's how the experimental subjects are being rolled out in batches, smartly and successfully utilizing the blind spots of the security network that doesn't focus as much on the underground border gates that aren't currently being used for transporting any materials.  
  
That's understandable, since the eyes of the entire world are riveted to the events ongoing above-ground—with common folk engrossed with watching the arrivals of the world leaders as though they can be part of the event just by turning the television on.  
  
…In any case, completely unrelated to the fanfare and commotions happening above-ground, this particular underground tunnel is being exploited as the pathway to secretly dump and forget about the products of failed experiments that are being done all year round inside the top-secret laboratories of the kingdom.  
  
Eyes closed, limbs bound, mouth shut: that's how Sienna Navajo is sent to far-off places that may or may not have a chance of being visited by signs of life, and that's how she will survive along with nobody else in this horrid batch of failures.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if she knows that exactly five months and one day after this very day, the highly advanced experiment laboratories will just be reduced to an ashen mess… even if she knows that she will be discovered by a childless couple who just happens to be collecting glass from garbage dumps… even if she knows that she will end up the same way as now in the last few moments of her life… even if she knows—)  
  
—AA9999 just opens its eyes and observes the shadows of the world.  
•  
  
title. Duke Family Head  
name. Narcissus Duke  
age. 6  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 5C [Utopia Tower]  
  
•  
  
As one of the first representatives to arrive, he's already a bit bored with waiting. Even the game in his hands is already nearing the end of the bonus boss battle, yet he doesn't feel any excitement whatsoever. This is his first time to personally attend this annual meeting; his seniors deemed him too young to attend the previous meetings. He personally thinks he remains too young even this year, but the situation is dire, or so the country thinks. Central Tower is getting too strong, they fear, and it might be too late to do anymore countermeasures if they hesitate and wait for things to unfold. He understands the itch to actually do something about the situation; he only doesn't understand where the fear is coming from.  
  
Central Tower has long displayed the potential for greatness: expansive land territory is always conducive for more expansion, just as the wealth of soil to mine makes it easier to establish sprawling underground cities and excavate more resources. Freedom Union is just a little bit smaller than Central Tower when it comes to size, but Central Tower has the advantage of riding out the momentum that it possessed once it started getting stronger. It's only been a couple of years since Central Tower succeeded over its neighboring enemy tribes, so they still have the confidence boost and the fresh drive to excel and exceed the world's expectations.  
  
It's almost entertaining to witness: his country panicking over every additional expansion that Central Tower does. It's unlikely that Central Tower, even with its ambition, will hope to expand even towards the Western Hemisphere where Freedom Union is located. Expansion over the unforgiving waters isn't something that can be easily achieved and Central Tower is too busy with fortifying its own fortress to care about that kind of conquest. That's what he thinks but apparently nobody else agrees, since they forced him to attend this meeting as the country's representative because they want him to use his abilities to negotiate a better arms deal for them.  
  
How amusing.  
  
His country is panicking over how they can maintain the façade of being a peaceful and freedom-loving country while trying to claw their way back up in a status that they only think they possess. It contradicts every single one of their so-called mission and vision values, just as it challenges the name that the country chose when it was established.  
  
Greedy ambitions are really quite funny to observe, but he wants to remain an observer first because dipping his fingers into a very crowded pot isn't very wise. He's just a kid and he knows his limitations, even if he does enjoy toeing the boundary lines and pushing the envelope a little too much.  
  
His gaze flickers to the tinted windows of his transport shuttle, observing the way Grand Romania's Highest King is glaring icily at his docking area. It's quite obvious that Cesar Black is hoping to be the first person to catch a glimpse of Freedom Union's representative, maybe in order to gain a self-satisfied feeling of superiority. He doesn't really mind being seen by others, because he's fairy sure that none of them will look at him as a threat to their goals. None of them will look at him and feel the fear that they should be feeling—and that serves his purposes well. He doesn't really mind, but he is really looking forward to making a grand entrance as the spoiled little brat that Freedom Union sent to shake things up a little.  
  
He sinks a little into his seat, the strain of the day-long flight settling on his ankles and on his thighs. He brings his knees up to his chest, dirtying the seat with the soles of his shoes. It's not like anyone is around: he sent them off for some sight-seeing around Herzog Kingdom's infamous gardens and displays. Or rather, it's not like he brought anyone who has authority over him to disapprove of his actions.  
  
His younger sister should be on the other end of the country, arriving with an entourage of maybe an entire mansion's worth of maids and personal assistants. He doesn't really care enough to give suggestions and pointers to Pearl on how to act with a little more poise and power; she seems to think that indiscriminately displaying her wealth and status are enough to garner the respect and command of the surrounding people. Power isn't something that should be wastefully revealed: there's always more impact if it's withheld until the very last moment, just as there's always more ripples it can cause if it's being hidden from some undisclosed location. That's only about the only reason why he doesn't really mind getting publicly bullied and humiliated by his younger sister who regards herself as the more superior sibling. It's nothing but her delusions of grandeur, but he supposes that it's his failure as an elder brother and as the family head, it's his failure to educate her at a young age on what power is. That's also about the only reason why he doesn't order an assassination hit on her, no matter how annoying she gets, because he feels a little tiny bit of responsibility over her delusions that will never bear fruit. She isn't ever going to be the real head of the family, and the reasons aren't because of her younger age or of her gender. The head of the family position always goes to the stronger one and she just isn't it.  
  
…Well.  
  
He sighs and shifts his legs a little, drumming his fingers against his kneecaps. The video game he was playing is now resting on the empty chair beside his; the bonus boss battle is already cleared and he doesn't have any more interest about it.  
  
He supposes that he can indulge the world's delusions for a little while longer. It's a good thing he still has time to laze around before he has to make his way to the meeting rooms. He can use this time to perfect the persona he's going to show to the entire world.  
  
Power should always be withheld from prying eyes, because displayed power is always weaker than the power stored within. Nobody will feel threatened by a cheerful boy who looks like a girl and acts like an airhead—that's what he will be to the world's observing eyes then. Nobody will bother denying him anything if he looks fragile and exotic; nobody will think twice about verbally abusing and eviscerating him. He will be a person who stands out so much yet so completely nondescript that nobody will expect him to be the most powerful person in Freedom Union and then, if he wishes, the entire world. He will be a six year old boy who acts like a normal kid, even if his real self is already brimming with knowledge recorded from all the libraries and information depots in the world, even if his real self is already inching to start using the assassination and combat skills drilled into him since birth.  
  
He will be Narcissus Duke, the weak and useless head of the family who only attained his position because he's the eldest male son of the previous head, and he will be the victor of this little game.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, the Herzog Kingdom that stood so proudly and defiantly above everyone else will be brought down to the ground by an earthquake that will appear harmless to all that could sense it… even if he knows that the fall of one kingdom will just be a prelude to an outpour of evil intent that will seep through even his own country's walls… even if he knows that there will be an unpredictable addition to Freedom Union and its pilot applicants… even if he knows—)  
  
—Narcissus Duke simply looks out the window and decides that he isn't particularly interested in finding out what's going to happen next.  
  
•  
  
title. Aster Gainsboro  
name. Aster  
age. 6  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock Center Dome [Utopia Tower]  
  
•  
  
Despite being a kid extremely far away from adulthood, nobody bothers stopping him from his leisure walk around the convergence point for all the arrival docks inside the Utopia Tower. It's most likely because everyone is busy schmoozing with each other, acting completely casual and conversational even if most of them are rather used to serious talks while hidden behind walls of computers and stacks of data files.  
  
He isn't a regular visitor to this area, but he does know that the entire Herzog Kingdom spends the rest of the year in relative silence—the upbeat atmosphere and the brilliant fanfare are definitely out-of-place occurrences to this kingdom's citizens. This is supposed to be an international conference that gathers representatives from each corner of the globe in order to discuss and resolve issues that plague the entire world, but he thinks that nothing can be fixed in an assembly that is built upon fake cordiality and false cheerfulness. But of course, that's just his 'kid opinion'.  
  
…Extremely different from his thoughts though, is the expression on his face, more attuned with the sham fanfare that drips from each corner of this kingdom's territory. It's regrettable, but it's part of his reason for participating in this international conference despite being a non-adult. Smiling happily like a kid without a care for any of the plagues and problems that will be brought up in the talks: that's his job as a child caught in the middle of the messy world of adults.  
  
He'll have to do this exact same smiling routine tomorrow, once the welcome parade is launched. Today is just practice, in a way, for an entire day of being expected to act like a statue of a benevolent angel tomorrow.  
  
Stifling the urge to scratch his scalp or unravel his tightly-braided hair, he bounces on his heel and nearly glides throughout the long, winding hallways filled to the brim with visitors with stiff shoulders and strained smiles. Despite his small stature and fragile appearance, nobody dares to block his path as he weaves through the crowd of politicians and bureaucrats. He attributes it to the fact that he looks a hundred percent similar to one of the humongous portraits placed at each entrance; nobody would dare to affront an important person, after all.  
  
Carefully, he empties his brain of faltering thoughts that belong securely with his childhood, because he will not be able to continue smiling happily, innocently, if he allows himself to think of other concerns.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, the entire world will change alongside problems that used to mean nothing… even if he knows that his situation will worsen with each passing day… even if he knows that he will continue to follow a destiny that doesn't belong to him… even if he knows—)  
  
—Aster continues smiling, keeps his thoughts hidden from the world's prying eyes.  
  
•  
  
title. Siobhan Rex  
name. Siobhan Rex  
age. 5  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 12D [Utopia Tower]  
  
•  
  
…This is it?  
  
There's been so much fuss and rules about going here with her brother, to the point that she was almost expecting golden-plated docking areas and silver-glazed floors. Of course, she did adjust her expectations accordingly during the shuttle ride to this country, but she wasn't expecting the reality to be so underneath her expectations.  
  
"Ehh, everything looks ugly," she mutters loudly and doesn't listen to the hushing instructions from her caretaker. Why should she listen to a servant? She might be a young kid, but she's a Rex. The dirt at the tips of her fingers is of higher quality than her servants' lives added together. She doesn't have any reason to listen to existences lesser than dirt. She ignores their frantic gestures easily. "Stop shushing me!"  
  
"—Siobhan."  
  
Siobhan suddenly stops her scolding of her servants of their presumptuousness (yes that word!) in thinking that they have the right to tell her what she should say. In sharp contrast to her servants' rank beneath grime, the person who just said her name is someone worthy of being placed alongside deities.  
  
"Yes, brother…?" Siobhan cocks her head to the side, her curls fluffing out with the motion. "What is it, brother?"  
  
"We are in an international conference," her wonderful brother talks to her in smooth, even tones, his dependable figure in front of her, guiding her, "you must behave."  
  
Oh, how silly of her!  
  
It is part of the world of adults that her brother inhabits: faking interest in the lives of people beneath them. As someone who represents the proud name of the Rex family, her brother is tasked with being diplomatic and noble and perfect as always. It's her job to support him! She should be diplomatic like him—and that means no voicing out of her complaints, even if Herzog Kingdom is really nothing. It's tough, smiling and looking interested when all she wants is to go back home with her brother and maybe ask him to help her out with her lessons.  
  
"I understand, brother!" She chirps out her reply, blinking her artificially lengthened lashes, a bit (just a bit!) disappointed that her brother didn't look at her long enough to notice the fluttering of her eyes. She resolves to not dwell too much on that, because there's absolutely nothing interesting in this country, so her brother's gaze will surely swing back to her prettier form before long, she's sure.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance, even if she knows that exactly five months after this very day, there will be worldwide panic about the emergency state of Herzog Kingdom… even if she knows that her home country will start opening its doors to taking in refugees from this forsaken country… even if she knows that her brother will end up focusing his gaze and his time into people who are not her… even if she knows—)  
  
—Siobhan Rex continues to look only at her brother and doesn't care about anyone else.  
  
•  
  
title. Vlastvier First Heir  
name. Frederick Vlastvier  
age. 5  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Lounge Reception Area [Utopia Tower]  
  
•  
  
While he isn't so arrogant to assume that everyone will be looking at him at each single moment, it's still within his responsibilities as a member of the host country's nobility to paste a permanent cordial smile on his face, if only to simulate what a good, welcoming, upstanding citizen he is. It's a bit of a challenge to maintain a pleasant expression on his face, especially since the person seated beside him is freely showing frustration on his features.  
  
As the older brother, it also falls within his range of tasks to make sure that Ash becomes a respectable representative of the Vlastvier line, and consequently of Herzog Kingdom. There's only a one-year difference between their ages, but their tutors are already loudly gossiping and complaining about how Ash's immaturity is making everybody's lives a thousand times more difficult.  
  
He spares a side-glance to his younger brother's sullen face and thinks that it wouldn't be so bad if Ash wasn't so good at exceeding the expectations for his prowess when it comes to fighting. Ash's indiscretions are being forgiven only because Ash is a natural-born genius when it comes to military topics and training—that kind of half-assed disciplining is only making Ash cultivate his rebellious and uncooperative personality even more.  
  
As the first heir, he's accountable for the movements of every single person in the family and if he can't even keep track of his younger brother then he's going to be a failure at his responsibility. He doesn't want that. He doesn't particularly want to be the best when it comes to anything, but he also doesn't really enjoy failing to answer to the demands being asked of him.  
  
It's not like it's impossible to understand Ash's simple point of view of wanting to just do whatever he wants. It's only impossible to follow that way of life, since part of the responsibilities of being a noble is to be a good role model to all the other commoners, to be the shining example of what others should act. There's no room for selfishness, a fate that he has already accepted even before he has started undergoing the harsh training that prepares him to take his place as the head of the family.  
  
"That person stinks," Ash whispers in a feather-light tone that makes his stomach grow heavy with unpleasantness.  
  
Alarmed, he looks frantically around them if anybody heard Ash's childish accusation. This is a peace summit and statements like that is practically inviting a scandal, or even worse, an altercation.  
  
"What?!" He whispers back, easily delivering his words right next to Ash's ear without bending down; it's only been a couple of months, but Ash's height is already catching up really quickly. "Don't say such things. We need to behave."  
  
"You sound like the headmistress," Ash snickers with no sense of duty or respect whatsoever, taunting him, "scary, scary."  
  
"Just shut up," he hisses, his welcoming smile nearly overcome with strained frustration. He reigns in the urge to stomp his feet childishly so that Ash will stop ridiculing his attempts at being a role model.  
  
"But he stinks," Ash wrinkles his nose as Cesar Black roams around the arrival lounge with a sharp smile that feels like an unsheathed sword, "of evil intentions."  
  
He isn't quite sure which is worse, diplomatically speaking, between stinking of body odor and stinking of foul ambitions. He doesn't know if he has the capabilities to decide about, so he simply takes Ash by his elbow and drags him toward the secluded area for the Herzog Kingdom welcoming committee. It's like running away from his responsibilities as a good host, and it irks him a bit. But, it will be really devastating if somebody overhears Ash's accusations, so it's better if they just retreat from the scene for a little while.  
  
Ash protests, of course, but there's still a one-year difference between the two of them and their strengths and builds, so he still manages to drag his younger brother to the destination that he wants, just not without some difficulty.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, there will be mass chaos and confusion once the earthquake subsides and leaves behind impossible assassination cases and impossible palace destructions… even if he knows that all his drive and desire of being a polite and respectable member of nobility will all amount to nothing after the name Vlastvier and the name Herzog will both cease to mean anything but annihilation… even if he knows that Ash will reverse and lengthen the gap between the two of them and their abilities in a future not too far from now… even if he knows—)  
  
—Frederick Vlastvier simply continues holding on to his brother's elbow and doesn't let go.  
  
•  
  
•••

  
  
**Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting**  
**665th anniversary**  
**2 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Paradise Tower**  
**[welcome parade]**

  
•••  
  
title. Herzog Kingdom's First Prince  
name. ???  
age. 6  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Royal Palace: Hanging Gardens [Paradise Tower]  
  
•  
  
A huge part of his entire job description, so to speak, is to keep a brilliant, dazzling, enchanting smile pasted upon his face. It's an incredibly easy chore to accomplish, honestly, and it thoroughly baffles him why others fail to notice the tense lines at the edges of his constant smile. However, as effortless as smiling is to him, he's finding it exceedingly difficult to do right now. A person possessing average comprehension skills should be able to understand that his unusual mood can be traced back to a certain person's disappearance from the palace.  
  
He twists his smile a little bit, wryly, as he muses about how such an outstanding kingdom is filled to the brim with useless idiots. It's almost a wonder Herzog Kingdom has continued to hold on to the distinction of being the number one country, especially since its population is made of people with disappointingly dull existences. It only goes to show how much the entire world has sunk. It's rather pathetic, and if he's the type to actually, genuinely, care about the events happening around him, he supposes that he'll feel a sliver of anger.  
  
He feels nothing even remotely similar to anger about the way his thoughts are spiraling downwards to the descent of humanity's overall quality. He just sighs, in deep boredom, as he swings his torso sideways, like a reversed pendulum, complete with broken arcs and imperfect rhythms.  
  
He doesn't feel anything like anger, but he does feel an almost overwhelming disappointment at the loss of the Second Prince from his side. It's almost unfathomable, really. It's not like he's particularly close with the Second Prince; they haven't even communicated much on the five years they spent side-by-side.  
  
It's been nearly a year since the Second Prince's quiet disappearance from the Palace however, and it drives him crazy with each passing day.  
  
Worse, the Herzog Kingdom's royalty system is actually crazy-prepared regarding disappearances, that's why the public remains blissfully unaware, doesn't know anything about a missing prince. Since the hour the Second Prince disappeared from all the tracking radars, the Kingdom actually already had a back-up prince masquerading as the Second Prince.  
  
It's not like it annoys him.  
  
Annoyance is too strong of an emotion.  
  
But it… disappoints him.  
  
It's an indescribable feeling: to suddenly have someone who's been by your side every single moment of the day for five years, for that person to suddenly disappear without any notices or clues, without any answers as to when he'll be back by his side.  
  
"Your Royal Highness, there you are!"  
  
He ignores the relief and panic intermingling at the servants' voices. It's either they're slacking on the job or he's becoming really awesome at hiding from them. It's been three hours since he broke into the hanging gardens at the Paradise Tower, supposedly off-limits for little kids like him, no matter how high his status is in this land.  
  
"Come, your Highness, you need to be at the Welcome Parade…"  
  
His nose twitches at the mention of the frivolous display of fireworks and holograms that nobody really pays attention to. While it's true that it's something like an annual celebration of the New Year, the Alliance's annual meeting is something embroiled with politics, economics and even more politics. It's not something that can be successfully associated with fanfare and enjoyment—and that's true for even the more ambitious politicians and negotiators. It's his fourth year attending the meeting and it gives him stronger migraines each time. It seems that growing older and wiser to understand the schemes of the different world leaders is only helping his body think of ways to make his head even more painful.  
  
"I'll go later," he promises to the horde of personal security guards and assistants nervously huddling behind his back. They titter and generally make a lot of noise amongst themselves—they're probably looking at his back and worrying if he's going to fall from the garden edge that's he dangling his feet from. He's almost insulted that they're even considering to feel fear about his precarious position; while he isn't as gifted when it comes to physical abilities and all-around strength, he isn't weak enough that he needs someone to worry about him when he's playing around at the hanging gardens, even if he's seated at the edge of a display that's nearly a kilometer high. He's careful even if he doesn't seem like it.  
  
If he falls to his death and becomes a splatter of bones and flesh on the far-away ground below, then how the hell can he meet with the Second Prince again?  
  
Really, do these people even use their heads?  
  
"But your Highness…"  
  
He almost raises his hands to tap his cheeks, just to make sure that there's still a smile plastered there even if he's starting to feel the beginnings of an emotion that can only be distantly associated with frustration. He doesn't. He simply leans back, farther away from the more dangerous edge, and doesn't stop reclining until his back is lying down on the tasteful decoration of artificial plants. His feet remain dangling over the edge, swinging mildly even though there's no breeze inside this garden.  
  
His assistants spring into action almost without any split-second of delay, and he almost whistles in appreciation of their thorough training of instantly hurrying to his side. He doesn't, and he simply looks up to the artificial sky projected overhead, a bit disappointed that his view is quickly filled with the interchangeable faces of his servants, worry and anxiety playing on their faces. They're probably going to spend an hour or two fussing over him and his hair, possibly add a few more layers of foundation on his face as though he needs assistance with looking gloriously pale.  
  
He fails to understand the appeal of having a sickly pale prince with long, platinum blond hair as the presiding officer to these annual meetings. He knows how much humans love to judge people by their appearances and he knows that his fragile, feminine appearance hardly commands absolute obedience. And then he has his personal assistants, just glorified servants really, who make sure that his hair and clothes are all picture perfect—just to make sure that he's the epitome of perfect appearances.  
  
It boggles his mind.  
  
The Second Prince, with his ebony-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, is the perfect example of someone who can simply stand there and command respect and subservience. It's all about the aura, he supposes, something that he isn't quite convinced he possesses.  
  
…Not that he particularly cares about that either.  
  
He frowns a little as his servants all murmur apologies and excuses for hauling him up and dragging him as respectfully and as gently as possible towards his private chambers, where they're undoubtedly going to spend ages in dressing him up in an outfit that will appear exactly the same as the one he's wearing right now, sporting exactly the same hairstyle as the one he has at the moment.  
  
Another moment passes and it's filled with thoughts of how he misses the Second Prince—the real one, not the shadow that the Kingdom has cultivated for emergencies—especially since the Second Prince was the one who spared the time to silently and efficiently arrange his hair in a not-too-loose-not-too-tight braid that's just perfect and completely unlike the braid his servants do to his hair.  
  
"Oh, how wonderful: at last we have the star of the program!"  
  
He keeps smiling a wonderful smile that is sure to electrify the hearts of the people around him.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, the hanging gardens will all become a splattered mess of artificial displays and fake lighting to the ground one kilometer away… even if he knows that his title of being the First Prince and the kingdom's title of being the number one entity in the world are all going to burn asunder… even if he knows that Herzog Kingdom will fall five months after this day's meetings end with tense agreements over peaceful settlements… even if he knows—)  
  
—The First Prince just smiles and realizes that he really doesn't care.  
  
•  
  
title. Herzog Kingdom's Second Prince [Third Prince acting as proxy]  
name. ???  
age. 4 [???]  
location. Herzog Kingdom: Royal Palace: Observation Dock [Paradise Tower]  
  
•  
  
Overlooking the hanging gardens' display of seasonal blooms—(and the term 'seasonal' doesn't really mean anything because nothing is seasonal if the world doesn't change, if the weather remains a stagnant mess of corrosive rain and suffocating air)—is a wide panel of bulletproof glass windows that encloses the so-called Observation Dock. From his view, he can actually witness the First Prince being surrounded by his servants who all undoubtedly just want the charismatic, yet often-childish prince to actually peacefully acquiesce to doing his job of being a pretty display at the welcome parade.

[wip]  
  
•  
  
•••

  
**Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting**  
**665th anniversary**  
**3 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Heaven Tower**  
**[annual meeting]**

  
  
•••  
  
title.–     
name. Alice Majorelle  
age. 5  
location. Kingdom of Thrones: Underground City: Low Town Sector  
  
•  
  
Don't judge a book by its cover: definitely one of the oldest and truest sayings that Alice knows. He isn't quite sure about the origin of the saying, but it's certainly from the very old and ancient civilization a few millennia back.  
  
"Those are some lovely apples, mister."  
  
The apples are deep red in color, almost unnaturally so. Definitely a fake fruit, or maybe something stolen from the agricultural laboratories. Mr. Vendor's eyes are uncannily bright and his smile is distastefully wide. There's definitely something fishy with his goods, something that goes beneath the exorbitant pricing he's displaying to the passersby. He doesn't intend on becoming Boy Detective or even Defender of Fair and Just Pricing, but he's interested in tasting those crimson red apples that just don't make it to the dining tables of starving commoners like him.  
  
"Oh dear, oh dear, you have great eyes!" Mr. Vendor looks so obviously interested in scamming the hell out of him, eyes gleaming with greed and practically shining with thoughts of money. "These are top-quality apples imported from—"  
  
He tunes the vendor's words out quite easily, his eyes scrutinizing the fruits on display. Shiny skin and full shape, almost like the sinfully beautiful apple he used to read about. Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest, that's why there's no doubt that these apples are probably laced with a fatal amount of insecticide and pesticide, or maybe this stall is just a ruse to get an assassination target to buy an apple being sold to hundreds of customers milling around in the common marketplace.  
  
"—top-class, rare fruits—"  
  
Yes, definitely just a ruse. There's no way a smart merchant will sell gem-like apples in the commoner's market, especially with the threat of riots and theft running rampant. This is definitely just a set-up, for some poor fool who can be swayed by the gleaming red color and the soft, sweet smell.  
  
…Smell?  
  
Hmm, so there are hallucinatory drugs here too? Wow, Mr. Vendor must be really selling some one-of-a-kind apple.  
  
"Wow, that sounds so cool, mister," he says with inflected enthusiasm and wonder, adds some childlike gushing gestures as well. There's no twitch of suspicion in Mr. Vendor's eyes, so he's definitely buying his cute boy act. He's interested in getting a sample of those poison apples, but it's his personal motto to not pay for anything. Huh, it's probably time to start hastening this. "But, well, thanks anyway, mister. I don't think I got the money to buy these."  
  
He's always been told that he looks ethereal, angelic even. With round, expressive eyes and full, pouty mouth, not to mention his natural paleness and his sickly body, he's the embodiment of frail, feminine charm. He doesn't get it: why would anyone want someone who looks weak? It's possibly one of the quirks of his fellow humans that he would never understand. They most likely just want someone with that frail look just so they can feel the satisfaction of taking care of him, maybe even protect him like some diligent knight. Ha! How stupid. Humans were the ones who made the saying 'don't judge the book by its cover', by they're also the same ones who routinely forget about those words when they see his angelic face and his shivering body.  
  
He bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, inwardly feeling nauseous at the way Mr. Vendor practically salivates in excitement in front of him. Oh, for shit's sake, aside from selling dangerous, poisonous apples, this freak is apparently a depraved pervert too. Some people just have all the disgusting traits magnetized all together, huh? He isn't going to complain though; this vendor's perversion makes his job much easier.  
  
…After all, it's much easier to handle people who are somehow similar to you.  
  
Alice tilts his head to the right, exposing the left curve of his pale neck to the vendor's greedy eyes, letting the golden threads of his hair fall into a curtain in front of his eyes. His eyes are zeroed in on the vendor's movements, but he is acutely aware of the stream of people pushing and pushing around them. He's judging whether these people will notice or care about a vendor nearing his forties manhandling a frail, young boy into a dark, secluded alley. There's no doubt Mr. Vendor is thinking of the exact same thing, maybe add a little more brusque fantasies or something more disgusting.  
  
Humanity's capacity to think is severely impaired by wants. He loathes referring to them as needs, because unlike air-food-water, traitorous feelings and mere wants are unable to cause someone's death if denied. Nevertheless, humans fail to see that simple wants shouldn't control oneself so exhaustively; humans label whims and urges as needs in hopes of satisfying their own sense of judgment about the things that they greedily grab.  
  
…He understands that concept thoroughly. He is human like everyone else, that's why he understands the bad habit of labeling mere wants as something that he needs like air.  
  
He also understands the way Mr. Vendor's mind works, even if the phrase 'don't judge a book by its cover' rings insistently at the base of his skull. He isn't judging Mr. Vendor's potential for perversity based on his pig-like body or his greasy hands; he's calculating Mr. Vendor's capacity for evil intent based on the way his breathing accelerates while his eyes shamelessly roam up and down his young body. Not only that, he also reads the data falling all around him: the insistent stream of people, the cloying scent of sweet apples, the appealing redness of the blood-like skin, the set-up of the ups and downs of the buildings in the area.  
  
He reads the entire book, not just the cover, of Mr. Vendor.  
  
"…Mr. Vendor?"  
  
Alice tilts his head to the left this time, swaying his body to a rhythm that he knows old perverts like, the pendulum of one's life criss-crossing like a death knell from above. Golden strands of his hair that are dubbed 'gold-silk' by his fellow beggars swing as well, a hypnotizing gesture that he expects to lure Mr. Vendor into his trap.  
  
Mr. Vendor's mental processes are heavily impaired as he focuses on the little seduction that Alice sets up; Alice almost whines that the police force will definitely not come to this area and they will definitely not meddle with what will look like some underage prostitution. Kingdom of Thrones doesn't bother with low-level crimes like that, but telling that to someone who is so laced with paranoia is just no good. That will just be too easy and Alice dislikes it when things approach the inevitable conclusion without any excitement whatsoever.  
  
Not even five minutes after their paths first cross, and the vendor-assassin-whatever is already within his grasp.  
  
Alice fakes a sound of distress and panic as poison-laced hands grab him by his waist, bodily dragging him to the secluded alley a few paces away from the apple store.  
  
The steady stream of people doesn't even spare a glance at the middle-aged man dragging a protesting boy against his will to some dark corner.  
  
It's… almost disappointing.  
  
Humanity's tendency to contentedly gaze upon the surface is going to be humanity's downfall as well.  
  
Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest.  
  
…He believes that, because he himself is the best example.  
  
—ring, ring, ring, ring—  
  
Ah.  
  
Alice coughs into his right hand, instantly regretting his action when he notices how dirty his hand is. He tries to use his left hand to wipe his mouth free of the string of saliva, but he halts the action midway, noticing that the left hand is at an even dirtier state than his right.  
  
—ring, ring, ring, ring—  
  
Ah, his phone is ringing. Normally, beggar children wouldn't even dream of dreaming of possessing a cellphone, but his circumstances are a little different. He thinks about which hand to use to bring his phone out of his pants' pocket, ultimately choosing his right hand because he isn't sure when can he get that person to replace the cellphone casing if it gets too dirty.  
  
"Hello~" Alice croons his greeting to the video feed that appears instantly after he accepts the call, dirty left hand arranging his perfectly golden hair to a more acceptable style. "Long time no see?"  
  
"You look like shit, you moron."  
  
Alice smiles, but it's nothing like the ethereal smile that wins over the hearts of every single person in the vicinity without him even trying. It's his so-called 'real smile', a barely-there twist of lips that reek of smoke and ice, an expression that he knows no five-year-old should be able to wield.  
  
"You're lucky you're far away, or else I'll make you pay for calling me a moron, shithead."  
  
"And you aren't gonna deny looking like shit?"  
  
"I know I look like shit, I'm covered with blood, duh." But even so, Alice knows he is beautiful. It's like a curse: the curse of looking so fragile and weak that everybody becomes smitten with the thought of getting close to him and dominating him entirely. Even if he doesn't want to, he's able to effortlessly attract the attention of every single person he encounters, to the point that he can easily lure them into breaking all their principles and all the country's laws just so they can follow him back to where he's nested.  
  
…Every single person with only one exception.  
  
"…But you look beautiful on the outside, still."  
  
Alice jerks his head in surprise, definitely not expecting their conversation to suddenly dip into the thoughts in his head.  
  
"Y-Yeah…"  
  
The person on the other end of the line looks like he's lounging on a really enormous bed. Alice calculates the time difference and concludes that it's way too early for bedtime and the person he's talking to is simply too lazy and unmotivated to do his job instead of slacking off.  
  
"I've got the poisoned apples," Alice informs the person on the other line, his left hand rummaging around the ground for his proof of victory. He triumphantly waves his trophy-of-sorts as soon as he successfully finds it.  
  
"Wow, that's so gross!"  
  
"I know, right?" Alice swings the dismembered head a little, making sure that none of the leftover blood drips into his clothes or into the video phone. "I was only going to shoot him with his gun, you know. But then he took the gun from me. How stupid! I was trying to be considerate to him, but look where that brought us."  
  
"…I can't even recognize if that's a broken nose or a crushed eyeball."  
  
"Your compliments are well-received, Alexander." Alice almost lectures him about the huge structural differences between broken noses and ground eyeballs, but then he remembers something important. "Ah, damn, you're not Alexander today, right? What name did you choose again?"  
  
"It's Isabelline Noir, moron."  
  
Alice smirks. "Right, right~! …Since I forgot, I'll let that 'moron' comment slide for now."  
  
They converse for a few more minutes, talking about the ongoing meetings in the annual peace summit, about insulting each other's (unearthly beautiful) physical appearances, about death and assassination targets, about topics that would sound completely synchronized with seasoned soldiers or maybe sadistic pilots, but not with five-year-old kids like the two of them.  
  
Alice is usually content with acting sicker and dumber than he actually is, when it comes to dealing with the rest of the world. But since he's speaking to Alexander—or Isabelline Noir, as he calls himself now, while masquerading as a princess or something equally stupid—the only person who isn't affected by his so-called charms and the only person who knows the ugly pages in his book, he doesn't bother with hiding his real self.  
  
His real self: the Alice who is capable of completely pulverize a grown man's face using his bare hands, the Alice who is capable of such bloodthirsty violence despite having a fragile heart that cannot keep up with the strain on his body contributed by his piss-poor lifestyle and the deteriorating environmental conditions, the Alice who is capable of being a complete, heartless monster.  
  
Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest.  
  
He understands that well, just as he understands the villains and the filthy ones that make Kingdom of Thrones their home. He's filthier than the entire underground world combined, so he understands the yearning to kill, to hurt, to destroy very well.  
  
He used to blame his parents for abandoning him; he used to blame the world's cruelty for his circumstances; he used to shiver in fear at the memory of his very young self, left behind in some dumpster by the side of some prostitution house, completely sick and feverish and powerless and without any cloth to protect his naked skin from the Kingdom of Thrones' bitter winter. He used to remember that moment for his subsequent actions; he used to perfectly recall the faces of the drunken bastards who stumbled upon where he was thrown away by his parents who can't afford his medicine—the drunken bastards who were so thoroughly affected by his magnetizing charm even though he was barely past being a toddler back then.  
  
He used to futilely reconcile the gory contents of his book with his angelic appearance, refusing to recognize the fact that his first kill was out of self-defense against drunken bastards who couldn't separate right from wrong.  
  
"—you should get the money too, since I might not be able to sneak out after this shitty meeting."  
  
Alice snaps out of the reverie that winds over his body. His left grip slackens around Mr. Vendor's decapitated head, letting his proof of a job well done crash back to the trash-infested ground where it belongs. The mission for today is to simply remove the eyesore from the commoner's market: at least, that's what the members of Alexander's little gang is told. But since the leader himself gave Alice the okay to start ransacking the poisonous drugs vendor's place…  
  
"Alright, I'll go and do that."  
  
"…Did he try to touch you?"  
  
"They always try to touch me," Alice answers without any malice, systematically adding and removing emotions from his words and thoughts, because he knows he is a being that is easily affected by darkness, easily consumed by his bloodlust, easily conquered by his own strength. "That isn't anything new."  
  
"I suppose," and Alexander's expression looks absolutely horrible with a woman's face—or was it the other way around?—and Alice doesn't hesitate voicing that particular concern out.  
  
"For now, you shouldn't let anyone else touch you."  
  
If someone listened to their conversation now, it sounds like a declaration by some psychotic, jealous, overprotective boyfriend. Never mind that they're both little kids and that they're both guys and that they're both disinterested in having a relationship different from what they have right now. Alice understands what Alexander is saying, because he isn't an eavesdropper nor a newcomer to this conversation. He recognizes the meaning behind those simple set of words.  
  
"Got it~ I won't even let anyone come within a meter radius!"  
  
Alexander Nightwalker is the next in line to the country's throne. Anything unsavory that can be linked to him must be absolutely eliminated and that includes Alice's entire existence; getting close to Alice means getting the possibility of discovering the cellphone that links the two of them despite being worlds apart. More importantly, getting close to Alice so soon after his kill will just compromise his entire façade of being a harmless little fly; he's always thrumming with energy after a particularly enjoyable splatter, so there's always a hint of danger for the next person he encounters afterwards.  
  
That's the complete meaning behind Alexander's almost-touching words.  
  
"That's great to hear." Alexander's lips are red with some sort of lipstick, the mocking smile standing out explicitly even with the phone's imperfect video quality. "That should be 100 points as usual."  
  
Alice lets his left fingers dip into the sticky blood and dirt covering the alley floor. He's surrounded by filth yet he still looks picture-perfect, he knows; he's rotting inside yet he remains not-infectious to his surroundings. Working with Alexander gives him the opportunity to release the feelings that are just recirculating inside his bloodstream, but there are times that he thinks that there's really nothing good that will arise from this relationship. Each time he crosses paths with Alexander, he always feels an intense urge to sever all ties between them, but he always ends up getting seduced by his own wants for more and more destruction.  
  
"Hey, I need to go." He doesn't, because he can't hear anyone nearby within a twenty-meter radius, because he won't have any problems disposing of any potential witnesses. But he does need to go, because he needs to return to his cardboard home under the bridge, if only to fake interest in the ongoing negotiations disguised as campaigns for peaceful relations. He needs to raid Mr. Vendor's stash as well, and then redistribute the loot in his hiding places scattered all over the city. He needs to do a lot of things that he can actually do later today, if he wishes to continue speaking with Alexander more. But part of their relationship is not asking any more than what's being offered on the table, and the only reason why Alexander gave him a call out of schedule is because he's bored beyond his wits with the annual meeting.  
  
That's the only meaning behind this call, because Alexander knows about his capabilities first-hand.  
  
A perfect monster hidden by a glorious angel: that's Alice in Alexander's eyes. There's no way he called because of worry or doubts; he only called because he's probably itching to see something gory since peaceful meetings aren't really welcoming to terrorist attacks that exhibit excessive violence.  
  
"See you, Alice!"  
  
Alice turns the phone off and contemplates breaking it into countless pieces. It will be too easy to shatter the only communication link between him and Prince Alexander. All it would take is one well-aimed punch from his fist.  
  
It will be too easy.  
  
"…but then, nobody else knows how ugly I am…"  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five months after this very day, Herzog Kingdom will suddenly wobble down from the high display case it's enclosed in and affect every single country and every single person in the world… even if he knows that there will be a terrorist attack in the lower towns of the country in conjunction with the influx of the arrival of the war-stricken refugees… even if he knows that he will be lifted from the collapsed rubble where he will hesitate to show his real capabilities in front of anyone else… even if he knows—)  
  
—Alice Majorelle just steps on the severed head and unthinkingly crushes it on his way to the place he calls home.  
  
•  
  
title. Mutsuruku Clan Heir  
name. Matt Mutsuruku  
age. 2  
location. Mutsuruku Clan Main House: Training Room UG1  
  
•  
  
…Instead of participating in the mockery of peaceful negotiations and instead of watching the splash of explosive fanfare, the two-year-old Matt Mutsuruku has his eyes closed, while floating inside a pool that can rival the size of a public park.  
  
…Instead of dozing off peacefully while sunbathing or anything remotely similar to relaxing, the young child is instead forcibly floating atop a liquid that can only be aptly described as a lethal mixture of poison, breathing in the enclosed air that can only be appropriately defined as soaked with the intent to end a thousand lives.  
  
…Instead of developing rashes against the harsh water and instead of coughing out the bloodied remains of destroyed lungs and windpipes, the Mutsuruku Clan's young heir proves himself worthy of succeeding the family line by successfully surviving the severe surroundings, against all odds.  
  
…Instead of congratulating him for a job well done, the Mutsuruku Clan's head simply nods in satisfaction as he supervises the poison training from behind glass-reinforced windows that wouldn't allow a single poison gas molecule to pass through.  
  
…Instead of removing the young kid from the premises filled with poison at all ends, the entire family simply retreats to the nearby observation room and splits the television screen between monitoring Matt's vital signs and the progression of the negotiation for more militaristic awareness for young kids across the world.  
  
…Instead of playing with kids his age, Matt Mutsuruku simply lies there, floating in a stream of nothingness, thinking of an empty void where there's no poison water or poison gas to tickle his skin and scratch his throat, remembering a place that doesn't exist inside his mind simply because he hasn't been there yet.  
  
(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that the collapse of the Herzog Kingdom will be the trigger to the changes on his destiny, despite not knowing a single soul from that doomed country… even if he knows that he will somehow end up using this estate and even his entire family in order to achieve his goal that is so horrific that it will even terrify himself… even if he knows that he will be helpless against the poisonous emotion called obsessive love meant for a person that he will never attain in his grasp… even if he knows—)  
  
—Matt Mutsuruku simply opens his eyes and gazes at the ceiling, head devoid of anything that can be called concrete thoughts.  
  
•  
  
•••

  
  
**Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting**  
**665th anniversary**  
**10 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Heaven Tower**  
**[departure of guests]**

  
•••  
•  
  
title. Kingdom of Thrones' First Prince  
name. Alexander Nightwalker (aka Isabelline Noir)  
age. 5  
location.–  
  
•  
  
Argh, that has to be the most completely, totally, utterly waste of time!  
  
Not only did nothing whatsoever got accomplished, but the complete charade was boring as fuck and the exact same resolution could have been reached without having to go through all this trouble of going to Herzog Kingdom to pretend-discuss issues that are already being worked on individually by each country anyway. One has to wonder how stupid and self-serving the human race could be, if one enjoyed coming together to meet at one place to talk about some documents and computer programs and presentations, even if nobody believed in the shit that they're presenting anyway. There's just no freaking way anybody with half a brain would believe that all the countries in the world are still abiding by that rule about limiting militancy and stabilizing the amount of weapons within each region.  
  
There's just no way.  
  
Just like a beast that can be lured into temporary captivity and domesticity, the human race is really just a war-hungry population that attempts to curb their desire for destruction by futilely distracting themselves with things like wealth and peace. How ridiculous!  
  
It's so utterly stupid that he's itching to just grab something and maybe chuck it at someone's head. Maybe the sight of real violence, no matter how small and unprovoked, will actually spur people into action, into acting upon their instinct to show off just how barbaric they really are.  
  
Ah, he's bored.  
  
There's like a million pages that he has to read and affix his royal signature to, but fuck those stupid documents. It's not like adding signature to the document is going to change anything. It can be a document ratifying the agreement of the entire world to stop amassing certain elements that can be used to strengthen military weapons, but a flimsy paper isn't going to stop researchers from thinking of ways to make their less geeky and more muscly colleagues become more formidable in battle. It isn't going to stop strategists from devising plans in order to fool other countries into guarding their territories less; it isn't going to stop government officials from allocating funds to development of military bases instead of routing the funding to support the impoverished citizens.  
  
Ah, just thinking about all this stupidity is making his head hurt.  
  
…Or wait, maybe that's the tiara sitting atop his head that's actually giving him a headache?  
  
He removes the diamond-studded tiara and looks at it in barely-veiled disgust. Girls actually wear this type of shit? It's a wonder anyone actually dared to look at his direction today, since his head is like a fucking lightbulb, shining and glittering like a discoball or something equally stupid.  
  
But oh, did they look. They looked at him, those old perverts, with eyes that appraised his full bust. They looked at him in hunger, before they took a moment to realize that they're ogling someone too short and too petite to be anywhere near the legal age. Sure, he's bigger than other people his age, and sure he borrowed high heels from some unsuspecting person, and sure he did make sure to apply obscene amounts of make-up so that he won't be recognized as Alexander Nightwalker. But oh, did his disguise fool those disgusting perverts.  
  
He needs to properly thank Alice for giving him this wonderful idea—  
  
Oh right, Alice.  
  
Maybe he should give that kid another call? Alice did look a bit lost yesterday, though maybe that's just because the signal is a bit bad and the video quality of the cellphone he handed him just isn't cutting it. Or maybe he just isn't too updated with Alice's moods and expressions—it's not like they're bosom buddies or anything anyway. They're just two kids who stumbled upon each other by total accident, and two kids who continued knowingly stumbling into each other's lives thereafter.  
  
It's almost amazing how the two of them managed to find each other, especially since they're both deceptively beautiful and harmless kids who revel in violence.  
  
Hmm, Alice. It's also amazing how his boredom seems to have easily fled his mind as soon as his thoughts switched to the other boy. But that isn't something that's a cause for some panicky epiphany or any sort of surprise, because he's long understood that Alice is an extremely interesting person. They do say that first impressions last forever—that is definitely true for the way he holds Alice in such a high regard, despite the other's laughably weak appearance and pathetically poor financials. It isn't just anyone who'll nonchalantly rob the first prince even while knowing about his identity. The person must have the perfect mixture of guts and cleverness to be able to pull it off, and a four-year-old Alice was able to do that on their first meeting.  
  
It's really amazing.  
  
  
[wip]  
  
  
•  
  
  
  
•  
  
title.–Doctor  
name.–  
age.–  
location.–  
  
•


	13. turn 13: thirteenth timelessness

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _turn 13: thirteenth timelessness_  
  
(—traitorousness—)  
  
•••  
  
 **A Simple Teenage Story**  
 **[In a Certain Underground City]**  
  
•••  
  
  
year. January of 670 AC  
location. In a Certain Underground City   
  
•  
  
Being a teenager is this era is filled to the brim with misfortunes. He closes the electronic book with a hard push—with fingertips dried by the steady gust of regulation thermostat of the room—against the touch screen, somehow unreasonably irritated that the teenagers from millennia back had it so easy, despite living in an age that had ancient technologies and mediocre knowledge. He's aware, thanks to the time he had spent holed up inside the electronic library, that there was also a time when children were abused so thoroughly as a cheap source of dangerous, manual labor—he isn't envious of that era, since that uncomfortably mirrors the situation teenagers all over the world find themselves in now.  
  
Without much preamble, his communicator beeps with increasing frequency as his alarm activates. That alarm is actually meant to wake him up, but he's too jittery to stay cooped up underneath the bedcovers. It's unlikely he'll encounter anyone on his way to the front door, but it's also unlikely that he won't be able to find the breakfast left behind for his consumption.   
  
He spends a moment of silent gratitude as he munches on his lightly toasted nutritional bread, thankful that his parents didn't bug him too much about dropping by the hospital later after school. Some might say that his life at home is just nothing short of lonely, but he doesn't actually mind that, as long as there's still peace and harmony, and as long as they don't encroach on his personal matters. He just doesn't have enough interest to take time out of his schedule, just so he can stand silently behind glass windows as he disinterestedly peers at his newborn sister.  
  
It's a good thing that the start of the training program for pilot applicants coincides nicely with his sister's birth—not that successfully passing on the chance to bond with his little sister is a great enough of a boon to ignore the very huge misfortune of having to apply for a chance to sit inside bulky, dangerous machines and duke it out with other equally dangerous machines. Pilot application is mandatory for every single citizen of the country though and he doesn't have the privilege of escaping from that chain.  
  
…Of course, the privilege of letting his frustrations regarding the compulsory pilot application also doesn't belong to him, even if he is already from a high-class family considered to belong to the top strata of the country's contributors.   
  
In his opinion, possessing a certain surname doesn't have any useful benefits attached to it. Not only does it not allow him to pass up the opportunity to measure his compatibility with SPHEREs, it also attracts hordes of starry-eyed teenagers in his vicinity, magnetizing and blinding them at the same time in order to lure them tight to his personal space. It's very unpleasant, but it's part of the consequences of being born to a famous family.  
  
He dislikes it.  
  
He does possess enough common sense though, to comprehend his own powerlessness against the rigid rules that make this world revolve.  
  
Declining to stay any longer at his empty home that's filled with reminders of his newborn sister's intrusion to the four walls that are now simply too frail to keep its contents bottled up, he downs the bland taste of his breakfast with a healthy gulp of ionized water. With the precision of someone who has performed the exact same motion with the exact same timing for an extremely long time, he efficiently removes his house-clothing and dons on the uniform that he will be forced to wear for the following years of his life.  
  
There's no embarrassment in his bones as he clips the badge that proclaims him as a beginner in the ranks of the pilot applicants—he'd actually much prefer it if he doesn't have to be a part of this entire thing, prestige be damned. There's no shred of interest in his mind about getting a lifetime's worth of fortune and fame from piloting giant robots—he'd really much prefer staying cooped up inside the electronic library and memorizing every last letter of every document ever recorded by history.  
  
His communicator beeps again, but it's to a more amiable tune this time. Eagerly—but not too much—he presses the [accept] button that blinks and shakes on the touchscreen display with a gentleness that's not part of his usual repertoire. He's playing favorites rather blatantly, but it's not like there's someone to witness this display.  
  
"…Yes?"  
  
"GOOD MORNING TO YOUUUU!" Incredibly enthusiastic despite the early hour, the greeting traverses several kilometers of distance with outstanding clarity. "Hey, hey, hey, are you about to go out now? I just finished breakfast but my tummy still feels funny so I think I'm gonna rest a little while, oh, but, hmm, I don't wanna be late since you're gonna be super early AS USUAL?"  
  
Despite himself, he finds his lips stretching to a faint smile. "…Did you take your vitamins and your medicine yet?"  
  
"HEY! Of course I didn't forget to eat my vitamins!" There's a silence that almost feels painful as the person on the other end gasps in horror. "OH MY I'M SO STUUUUPID. Ahahaha, so that's why my stomach feels funny! You're super smart, buddy!"  
  
"Be careful not to mix up the prescriptions." It's mostly a futile effort, but something that he doesn't mind offering a couple of moments to. "I'll see you later."  
  
"You're such a mother hen!" Faint sounds of someone juggling a bottle of pills followed by noisy gulps fill the line. "Yes, yes, see you LATERRRRRR!"  
  
His finger lightly touches the [end] button on his communicator because if he doesn't act now, the conversation will never end despite the lack of reason behind continued dialogue.   
  
Strangely contrasting against his usually silent demeanor is his friend's chirpy, slightly airheaded attitude. He can't think of any alterations to his life regarding his friend's presence though, so he supposes that it's just inevitability at work here. Even though their conversations reek of a lifetime's worth of friendship, the two of them have barely known each other for less than a month. There's just something inherently perky about the other, to the point that the sudden, whirlwind relationship-of-sorts doesn't intrude upon his own preference for solitude.   
  
Without further ado, he leaves the spacious residence that serves as a tangible representation of his family's aged wealth, a mixture of apathy and slight anxiousness warring underneath his stoic façade.  
  
•  
  
"I hoped that we'll manage to get assigned to the same class." There's a fragile sort of earnestness in the feminine face in front of him. "…I…I'm glad."  
  
He rolls his eyes at the overdramatic gesture—hands clutching conditioned air in front of a too-tight blouse—and at the heavy-handed dosage of adoration in the other's words. "Good morning, Francesca."  
  
"Why don't you ever call me Fran?" Dismay is the only word that could possibly hope to capture the essence of Francesca's whining. "We've been together our entire lives!"  
  
Together indeed; if the meaning of the word 'together' has evolved to encompass unwanted and unavoidable acquaintanceship then yes: he's been together with Francesca since the moment January 21 of AC 657 arrived. With family estates practically toe-to-toe with each other and with business dealings practically entangled together, there has never been a chance for anything to happen otherwise. While his own family is considered to be more stable and secure, the Mountbatten's current generation is proving to be incredibly intelligent when it comes to taking bold risks to improve its own status.  
  
Francesca, as a testament to the truth of knowing each other for more than a decade, doesn't wait for a form of answer or acquiescence from him. Just as well, since he doesn't have anything to provide for her dissatisfaction.   
  
"GOOD MORNING!"—Comes an incredibly loud and energetic greeting that tears away the attention of not only Francesca but also the entire class.   
  
He allows himself a small smile as he nods in acknowledgement of the other's arrival. A startlingly bright grin comes as a reply, before the ball of energy bounces his way towards where he's seated.  
  
"Good morning to you, Tyler~" Wallace enthuses without any sort of stomachache from earlier after having forgotten to drink supplementary medicines. "And a pleasant morning to you as well, Fran~"  
  
"…Uh, right…" Francesca looks midway between startled and bewildered; her eyebrows are furrowed, deep in thought, most likely attempting to remember what kind of connection she has with the overzealous ball of energy. "Good morning to you too, um…"  
  
"It's Wallace," his one-month acquaintance chirps in merrily, unfazed by the fact that he's a stranger to most of his classmates, "Wallace Cornwell!"  
  
If the obnoxiously loud greeting failed to capture the whole room's attention, the other's surname definitely succeeded in doing so.  
  
The Cornwell family is definitely not one of the older, ancient, dynasties that hold power over this country; the last three or so years have definitely invited them to the playing field of titans, thanks of the sudden spike in their businesses' growth and expansion. He has a fairly good idea about the main contributor of that exponential improvement, but it's a piece of knowledge that he doesn't care much to test about. He's never been particularly enamored with the idea of having an exclusive group of elite ruling everyone else from a high-above throne, so there's no problem with him if people keep on surpassing expectations and challenging the top themselves.  
  
"Oh!" Francesca's face now looks pinched, torn between continued courtesy and ineffectual snobbishness. She gains composure quickly enough, as expected from someone with such high-class breeding. "W-well, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Francesca Mountbatten."  
  
Wallace takes the extended hand and shakes it vigorously, almost rattling all the jewelry off of Francesca. Abruptly, he lets go of her hands and practically jumps into his own personal space, peering up really closely into his eyes. Without flinching (much), he meets the curious stare dead-on.  
  
"Are you guys together?"  
  
He's usually perfect when it comes to controlling his emotions before they could even flare up on his facial expressions, but the curious, innocent question is enough to throw him completely off-guard, surprise widening his eyes without his express permission.  
  
"Hmm, maybe not," possibly to alleviate the shock and horror painted on his face, Wallace offers an alternative, "more like childhood friends then?"  
  
That's also wrong but it's infinitely better than the initial observation.  
  
Francesca blushes like a schoolgirl—well, they are in school right now, but that it isn't the point.   
  
"Classes are going to start soon," he says instead to smoothen over the wrinkled interactions that jumpstarted their very first day on this pilot training class. The instructor hasn't even arrived and he's already feeling the miniature whispers of stress and migraine inside his ear.  
  
"There's still some time," Wallace protests childishly, even as he moves towards the seat matching the designated number on his ID badge. "We can still get to know the others—"  
  
He almost replies that their instructor is definitely going to start some lame icebreaker game once classes start formally, but before he can inject logic into the conversation, Wallace shots up from his seat and flaps his arms around like an overexcited hummingbird. "HEY! GOOD MORNING, CHARLES!"  
  
He winces at the booming greeting that's just getting repetitive; he chances a glance at Charles and finds out that the other is cringing too.  
  
"We were on the same class during the preliminary selection," Wallace appears to be trying for a conniving tone, but it only comes out as a failure at secrecy, "that's why I know him~"  
  
He isn't really that interested about Wallace's connections, but he smiles indulgently anyway and manages to reply with a calm command to sit down and shut up for the next five minutes at least.  
  
Wallace shoots him a look that's almost piercing—and for a brief moment, he feels as though there's a sudden shortage of air in the spacious classroom—before the look and the moment disappears into the folds of excited chattering and anxious primping. And before he can attempt to add something else to his words, Wallace exaggeratedly gives him a submissive salute, "Yes sir!"  
  
•


	14. reverse -05.05: negative reverse: ownership cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

•••  
  
 **Pillar of Despair**  
 _reverse -05.05: negative reverse: ownership cycle_  
  
(—"the one who was captured"—)  
  
•••  
  
"If someone as filthy as you is scrubbing the floors, you will just make things worse."  
  
Never has his personal policy included meddling with petty grievances of pilot-wannabes who immaturely lash out at the weakest person they land their eyes on. It's too much of a common occurrence, especially inside Grand Romania's insecure walls, to the point that he doesn't even see the point of getting involved with things that will naturally lead to their own ends without any guidance, especially not from him.  
  
He does end up meddling anyway, because the hallways have remained quite silent for the past couple of minutes; he only knows one person—and he does hope that there's only one of him in the entire world—who accepts these types of punishments with quiet acquiescence.   
  
The sight shamelessly, recklessly, bared in front of his eyes cause his eyebrows to twitch the slightest bit. Strong cleaning liquid spills out in slow, viscous drops from a knocked-over container, yet the pungent smell isn't enough to completely shut down his olfactory senses, yet the acidic strength isn't enough to clear the hallway of its clinging grime. The set-up is far from impulsive and thoughtless: a circle of massive evil intent forms around the prone form of today's victim, the human-blockade protecting their own interests and records from being tainted by reprimand from the higher-ups. The dim lighting contributes to the vague, ominous atmosphere that settles nicely in the corridors.  
  
There's a slight tremor on the brat's arms as he speaks out; there's no doubt that the person on his hands and knees knows his voice. There's nobody in this rotten country unfamiliar with the sound of his commands, after all.  
  
The person in the middle of the sneering bastards doesn't lift his face up from the metal-cold floors wet with the cleaning solution. Before taking up their respective places and positions in the grand scheme of life in Grand Romania, he and the brat used to be countrymen. It's a connection that he shares with other refugees from the Herzog Kingdom, but none of them managed to pass the initial selection tests for pilot candidacy. Of course, none of them possess the same noble blood of the Payne family either.  
  
Ever since their first meeting, he has already started thinking of the other brat as someone useless and spineless.  
  
That's why, meddling with this affair continues to surprise him a little.  
  
Jeers and sneers crumble and disappear into the tense, cold air at his approach.   
  
Incomprehensible as his actions might be, his movements don't register in sprint-blur, nor does it stagger forward in slow-motion. Everything happens as they should be, with no indication if they are special actions that mark something important in the flow of time.  
  
Naturally, too naturally, his foot eagerly meets with the puny, heaving chest barely covered by a thin shirt. He spies the other's bare hands painfully clutching makeshift rags, drops of blood spilling out from chapped lips, wasting the already useless effort in cleaning floors that will get cleaned by cleaner robots during their routine rounds. The brat is putting up a brave front and is attempting to reign in his groans of pain; it annoys him, to a certain extent. Thoughtlessly, his foot kicks the other's stomach, with more vicious force than necessary.  
  
It's almost unthinkable for someone like him to get involved with someone like him, but here they are: two teenagers locked together in a strange, inexplicable connection.  
  
He spies blood pooling out slowly from the prone, battered form of his victim. Brown hair feels coarse against his grip. It's too easy, too easy, to completely twist the slender neck into an irreconcilable position, to harshly tear out a handful of hair from their roots, to end the tyrant and victim situation between the two of them.  
  
But just as he starts entertaining the idea of putting an end to this pitiful life in his hands, a tired, but serene voice speaks out: "If you keep on touching someone as filthy as me, you'll end up being filthy too, Mr. Ash Vlastvier."   
  
His grip on the uncombed hair slips; he's surprised by the other's audacity. He makes up for the split-second of blankness on his part by quickly stepping at the back of the other's head, forcing the other's face to join the filth on the floor.  
  
There's no point to this violence, he's well aware. There's no point to going out of his way to torment and punish the other for sins that weren't committed. There's no point to descending from his much-superior throne to become closer to the garbage-infested ground.  
  
There's no point at all.  
  
He lets his gaze drift to Oliver Payne's pain-filled face.  
  
Yes, there's no point to this charade, at all.  
  
***  
  
Though he is in an arguably more prominent and important position compared to his previous standing while he was in Herzog Kingdom, his social decorum hasn't improved even slightly. He doesn't bother stifling the yawn that nearly breaks his face into half, nor does he bother with letting his disinterest with being inside this training room from being broadcasted clearly. He doesn't give a shit about acting all prim and proper, and even gives less of a damn in participating in a demonstration of the current training technologies for pilots since the useless brats all staring at him slack-jawed have absolutely zero chance of becoming a pilot and being able to make use of whatever is being taught today.  
  
Judging from Black's irritated glare though, there's at least one person in this room who is affected by his lack of participation in what's supposed to be a joint pilot demonstration. He rolls his eyes at the other's obvious annoyance. He isn't exactly fond of being a volunteer, especially if it's for nonsensical purposes. It's not his problem if Black finds spending time here worthwhile. Plus, it's not like the trainees will stop on looking at him and hanging after his every word because he lets out a yawn or three.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he spots a hunched back well-hidden behind rows of tall computer systems that are supposedly unused because this training room isn't supposed to be filled to maximum capacity. It's a rather perfect hiding place, he has to admit. It's must only be because of his boredom that he managed to notice the other's presence in this room saturated with pathetic uselessness.  
  
Even before Herzog Kingdom had sunken to the deepest pits of the abyss, Grand Romania has already been a proponent of bloodthirsty, power-hungry campaigns; everything is simply accelerating at alarming speeds now. As the first-ranked pilot of Grand Romania, he knows a lot about the bid for power, knows a lot about having to gain knowledge and strength. Willingly choosing to not listen to lectures and demonstrations by pilots who are already at the top—that isn't something that someone weak should do. Disregarding Black's warning glare easily, he makes his way to the far back of the training room, satisfied that the trainees actually continue paying attention to the heir of the current King.   
  
He's all set to scathingly scold the puny little brat about respecting authority and knowing his own status, but his eyes see something else entirely, something that makes him stop for a full minute. The taller computer systems placed at the far end of the training room are separated from the other workstations mainly because of their more advanced interface and their more complicated system. It's one thing to observe a mere pilot trainee meddle with them; it's even more interesting to see someone who doesn't have any computer background whatsoever continuously type sets of commands that can make computer specialists appreciative.  
  
There's an odd sense of loss, for a brief moment. Here they are: two castaways from the once-glorious Herzog Kingdom. Here they are: on completely different worlds. It's all because Grand Romania places more emphasis on testing its prototypes to search for the weapon that can place them higher than anyone else.  
  
"Everyone already thinks you're a useless worm," he does notice things around him after all, because even if he's the number one pilot, he doesn't lose his awareness of his surroundings, "and you don't even try to change their opinion. That makes you a masochist, no?"   
  
His words come out as a taunting hiss, but that's mostly because he is irritated at things that don't make sense to him. The other brat seems hell-bent on making things more difficult for himself, as though he's masochistically inviting trainees to keep on stepping all over his person. It doesn't make sense. It's maddening.  
  
"My apologies for any class interruptions…" Oliver Payne trails off, mock-respectfully stops typing, eyes half-mast and meek as they meet his stare. "…sir."  
  
He almost rises to the bait, irritation sparking from being called so respectfully and so normally that it's laughable.  
  
"—I'd really appreciate it if all of you pay attention to my demonstration," a different voice cuts into their confrontation at the far end of the classroom, and if only he can remember what the other's complete name is, he'd gladly dish out a more scathing reply.  
  
He watches, curiously, a different emotion splay across Oliver's face. It's barely noticeable, a simple, sudden shift. Nevertheless it happens: admiration-reverence-veneration locks and intermingles into one another. He observes, inquisitively, at how Oliver seems to regard the son of the King.  
  
The three of them used to have similar prestige kept under their names; now only the King's son remains royalty; now the only achievement linked to his name is something drenched with blood of thousands; now one of them will never amount to anything anymore.  
  
There's that pang of loss again, lasting longer than a fleeting second, but it doesn't last any longer than a quick flutter of his eyelashes.  
  
"I'll teach this brat." He suggests instead to the person whose name doesn't register beyond 'Black'. He's surprised by his own words, but only for a moment even shorter than a whirr of a gun's barrel. There's nothing that Oliver will learn from discussions about different physical measurement statistics and how those numbers are obsessively tracked by trainers and engineers and other staff who ironically cannot produce half the values they demand from the trainees. "You don't mind that, do you?"  
  
Of course he does mind that.  
  
"…Actually, I do mind that, Vlastvier."  
  
See?  
  
But well.  
  
"Well, how much do you think I care about your rich-boy feelings?"  
  
Now is the perfect time for him to mockingly call the other pilot by his full name, but he still can't remember it, for some stupid reason. Of course, he isn't exactly the brightest when it comes to remembering forgettable names belonging to people who don't deserve to be recalled.   
  
The King's son doesn't pout, but what he does in retaliation is just as useless. "Whether you care for my, as you put it, 'rich-boy feelings' or not is irrelevant. I just need you to do the damn job that our bosses gave us. Please, kindly."  
  
He breathes in, reigning in the spark of irritation that bubbles this time. Fake-respect, even just extending to fake-respect-words, annoys him to the point that he can't see straight. He hates being superior to everyone else, because it's a pain in the ass to remain as the role model and to be the one person everyone is counting on; he loathes his obvious superiority being mocked even more.  
  
"I am your boss, aren't I?"  
  
And it's the truth.  
  
Grand Romania is almost pitiable, with the way that the entire country clings and worships strength even if strength doesn't even exist in the same timeline as their ambitions. But he is the strongest in a country of weaklings—he dislikes opportunities being wasted instead of being used to their fullest. And as the most prominent man second only to the King: "And I'm telling you to stop interfering with me."  
  
The King's son is below his rank.  
  
And he knows it.  
  
Well, as long as Black knows and understands that he still has a long way to go before he can even dream of acting like he's in charge, then all is well. He supposes that he can let the matter go now—and more importantly, he can go ahead and witness first-hand just how much can Oliver surprise him.  
  
Unceremoniously, he grabs Oliver by the nearest available limb and hauls him out of the classroom. None of the trainees verbally react to the scene that they just witnessed and it's one of his privileges, he supposes, for his actions to remain unquestioned just like that.  
  
He finds human psychology difficult to understand, but he does know and expect those trainees to corner Oliver afterwards and beat him up for scoring a puzzling rendezvous with their hero. He doesn't particularly care and he doesn't think Oliver does either. It angers him, just thinking about Oliver's passiveness.  
  
There has to be a way to break that annoying passivity.  
  
There just has to be.  
  
Or else.  
  
He drags Oliver into a separate training room, easily clearing the security check by the entrance by swiping his pilot identity card. Yet another one of the perks of being the number one pilot: unlimited access to the rooms off-limits to most of the occupants of the Grand Romania headquarters.  
  
He shoves the brat into one of the empty seats, mildly careful since the brat is rather lacking when it comes to balance and there are expensive and fragile devices around. The computers in this room have the same specs and capabilities as the computers that are reserved for the engineers that handle his prototype SPHERE's tune-ups, so they must be powerful—and extremely attractive to a budding computer geek like Oliver. There are supposed to be some bunch of unintelligible software that will only make sense of one understands the developer team's initial thoughts and quirks; the hardware is supposed to be hypersensitive to stimuli making it useless for his own use. He is interested, though he wouldn't ever admit this aloud, to see what Oliver can do when given access to something better than what he's used to.  
  
"This is amazing." Oliver's expression of awe towards Black earlier pales in comparison to this one, definitely. It's almost funny how Oliver completely loses all apprehension he's been sporting ever since it's only been the two of them.  
  
"It is."  
  
It really is.  
  
He's already observing changes in Oliver's disposition, proof that Oliver is capable of not remaining passive forever.  
  
"…Why did you bring me here?"  
  
What's even more amazing is that he's right to think that Oliver definitely is smart enough to know that this freebie isn't, well, free.  
  
"Your test scores when it comes to SPHERE synchronization is on par with a toddler's, possibly even less." His memorization skill is rather average, but he remembers Oliver's data because they stand out even amongst the worst batch of failures. Calling Oliver the weakest human being to ever walk the earth is probably not an exaggeration. He recites the dismal values flatly, akin to a judge rattling off the person's inadequacies one by one. "Physical strength tests show that you can win a fight against a one-legged and one-armed seventy-three-year-old woman. Either that or against a two year old brat who hasn't received any initial motor coordination training. Ha, at least they're considerate enough to give you options, no?"  
  
Looking very much like he doesn't give a damn, Oliver even smiles a little bit. "The training engineers' initial assessment told me that I can't even win against a newborn, so I supposed I have already improved."  
  
It's really rather amazing, how much a weakling like Oliver can spout off these lines and manage to survive from the beatings that result.  
  
Is it possible for Oliver to actually be a genius who is just pretending to be foolish?  
  
Or is Oliver really just that foolish and weak—yet still with enough of an interesting spark of something to not be completely useless?  
  
He wants to know.  
  
He thinks that he can make it a project of sorts, to see if he can change Oliver somehow. It's nothing serious, just something to pass the time with, since he's rather tired of people focusing on him, on his improvements, on his statistics. He kills people for a country that isn't even his own, what else do they want?  
  
In any case: "However, your results for intelligence tests and theory-based exams are the highest in Grand Romania's history."  
  
It's as though possessing a few extra brain cells robbed the strength away from Oliver's bones and muscles.  
  
"My theory results can't strengthen my bones, just as my IQ results can't take me away from my fellow trainees and into the actual mission briefing rooms."  
  
He feels his eyes widen.  
  
It's this passivity again, completely devoid of regret or dissatisfaction.  
  
He idly wonders if it's possible that Oliver is a really, extremely, dangerous genius who is subtly, surely, sadistically riling him up.  
  
One look at the top of the slightly-bowed brown head though tells him everything he needs to know.  
  
"Your theory-based exam results are the best in the country, but they're not perfect." His tone is maliciously wicked, he knows, because he's feeling quite irate now. He kind of wants to shake Oliver by the shoulders; maybe that will wake the other up to reality. He settles for dragging Oliver upwards by the nearest available limb, again. "There's no room for mediocrity."  
  
"…There shouldn't be."  
  
…Huh?  
  
He knows his eyes widen even more at the unexpected response. His grip on the other's arm slackens. He smirks to himself when he realizes that this is going to be his project then, before he is sent to fight Rei in a few months' time.  
  
This is going to be interesting.  
  
"Take this test and if you get a perfect score, I'll give you one hour of unsupervised computer use." Oliver's tense shoulders relax the tiniest bit, but there's still a heavy scent of suspicion hanging around the other's form. "And for each mistake, I'll make sure to punish you extremely thoroughly."  
  
Watching those shoulders relax entirely after mentioning punishments is definitely the only proof he needs to ascertain that Oliver is a masochist.  
  
This is going to be really interesting.  
  
"On second thought, maybe that's not punishment enough." He leans in close to the other's face, their noses nearly bumping. The two of them both have green eyes, one of the most common eye colors for those born under Herzog Kingdom, but the tint on the other's irises is much more murkier, more innocent than his own. He should know, since he can see his face, his eyes, looking back at him on nearly all television programs advocating Grand Romania's policies and poster advertisements for pilot recruitment.  
  
Hmm, what to do?  
  
"…Maybe I should give you a kiss for each wrong answer you have?"  
  
He takes a small step back.  
  
"…Ha, as if I'd go through with such a disgusting action just for punishment."  
  
He can see the workings of Oliver's mind reflecting on his face.  
  
See, he is capable of not being completely frigid!  
  
Most people who look at him think that he enjoys abusing his privileges as the number one pilot and he bullies the entire population of pilots and pilot wannabes. He doesn't. He just enjoys tormenting one particular person—bullying a number of people is bound to be tiring and troublesome and tormenting someone is supposed to be something fun to do.  
  
And because it's not within his nature to resist the urge to do what he wants, he continues teasing Oliver. "In my home country, each time my birthday comes around, there's a custom for a demonstration on how to poison an enemy with a kiss."  
  
Again, there's that rapid firing of Oliver's nerve cells as his brain clamors for the meaning behind the just-spoken words.  
  
"I'm also from Herzog Kingdom but I haven't heard of—"  
  
He kisses Oliver: a simple, flat overlap of lips together.  
  
It doesn't mean anything.  
  
It shouldn't.  
  
It's just a trial of the punishment that he's dishing out, since Oliver just made a stupid mistake then, even if the question isn't included in the tests that he chucked over to the nearest workstation.   
  
It doesn't mean anything to Oliver as well, but it sure as hell amusing to watch Oliver flail around trying to regain his wits. True to his outstanding reputation of being a useless weakling, Oliver ends up crashing to the floor when all he probably meant to do is take a couple of steps away from him.  
  
"…Of course, that's just a lie, idiot." Of course it's a lie: his birthday isn't due for a two more weeks, for starters. He sits on the swivel chair that rolls away from Oliver's shaky, collapsed form. "I can poison you on any other days too."  
  
He takes a look at Oliver Payne's disgust-filled face.  
  
Yes, this should make things even more interesting.  
  
***  
  
Politics exhausts him so thoroughly to the point that he barely manages to keep his eyes open after a grueling six-hour discussion amongst the country's monarchs, officials and pilots. In his opinion, teenagers like him should be exempted from these types of discussions, because it's not like they have anything worthwhile to contribute, or at least, it isn't like they have anything to contribute that wouldn't be twisted into something different entirely or ignored into a mass of oblivion. Of course he personally loathes discussing pros and cons of attacking so-and-so or befriending so-and-so or doing whatever sort of manipulation with so-and-so.  
  
He'd rather focus on annihilating the people they tell him to destroy.  
  
He's disappointed that Central Tower and Freedom Union weren't careful enough to completely conceal the fact that the two nations have arranged a diplomatic meeting under wraps, perhaps even a compromise agreement. Grand Romania is panicking not-too-subtly because of this. He's due for three more test drives for the newly-reconditioned AETHER and it's all because Grand Romania is paranoid about remaining the only one tiny force against a coalition of several huge countries. Of course, it's highly likely that it's part of Central Tower's plan for the meeting with Freedom Union to be leaked out, if only to strike terror within the governments of their enemies.  
  
Ah, how annoying.  
  
His current direct supervisor, the head engineer leading the project to develop a new SPHERE prototype based on the blueprint that Grand Romania has recently acquired, stops him before he can bolt from his seat.  
  
"Be sure to report on time later, got it, Vlastvier?"  
  
He makes a noncommittal shrug, as he nearly runs out of the discussion hall. He's granted a couple of hours for personal use, but then it's back to a special hell for him. It's things like these that make him envious of the weaker guys; they get to spend more time for the things that they want to do and they don't have to be locked within testing chambers just so engineers and scientists can try out their new toys on him.  
  
There's The King, flanked by some bigwig advisors, and he hastens his footsteps so he can get the hell away from them. Spending six hours straight with only their boring faces and superficial words for company is already more than any human can possibly take. He doesn't intend to spend any more time with them, not if he can help it.   
  
There's also two other pilots who look as though they want to speak with him about some unimportant matter, so he arranges his expression into a menacing scowl, confident in its inherent scariness to chase away everybody else.   
  
It works wonderfully—granting him a relatively peaceful walk back to his designated room.  
  
Well, this isn't exactly a room.  
  
It's more like a storage space that somehow houses a bed, a closet and a bathroom. It's simple and easy to maintain, so he doesn't want to ask for anything more. Any upgrades or luxuries that he might wish will surely be granted to him, because Grand Romania is a stupid country that thinks placing the highest priority on the strongest teenage pilot is any wiser than hoping everybody else starts worshipping them out of nowhere.   
  
He's still a teenager, at the end of the day, and the adults around him just love forgetting about that fact. Nobody bats an eyelash about the fact that an entire country is pinning their hopes for world domination on a teenager like him. It's a screwed-up world, but it's easy to understand.  
  
Moreover, he's still a citizen from Herzog Kingdom, even if there's nothing left to tie him back to those ruins aside from his name and the tattoo on his nape. Nobody bats an eyelash about the fact that a kid who used to be political hostage from a now-gone country is now lording over them. It's a screwed-up situation, and he doesn't even want to try to understand.  
  
He practically dives into his bed, rumpling the covers and sending some pillows tumbling down to the floor. The heavy-duty springs barely make a sound of protest at the sudden addition of his weight. He resolves to stop thinking about useless things, not only because it's a waste of his time that can be better channeled to more fruitful pursuits, but also because the mark on his nape—the small, barely visible tattoo that all Herzog Kingdom heirs possess—hurt enough to cause a killer migraine whenever he ends up thinking about his past. It's definitely psychosomatic, a knee-jerk reaction to an odd nostalgia.  
  
"Hmph," he exhales in dissatisfaction, his face pressed hard against his bed, his words half-swallowed by his sheets, "this is annoying."  
  
He then rolls out of his bed, quickly making his way to the closet where his clothes and his few personal belongings are stored. It's only an idea that pops into his mind because he's bored and he isn't feeling so sleepy anymore.   
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
He then takes out his laptop, modified with one of the hard drives he has stolen from his engineer's testing room, and he returns to his bed. It's only an idle sort of curiosity, he knows. He isn't the type to commit to something, let alone someone, unless it involves destroying things. He dislikes getting involved with anything else, but he's bored and he'd rather meddle with that brat rather than lock himself up in his room and think about how stupid everyone is.  
  
Hacking into the pilot trainees' database is incredibly easy, but he isn't doing this for the challenge anyway. It's only a curiosity, a whim, a prank even. This month is the time for the end of the yearly training term for aspiring pilots. March is the end that trainees all look forward to, because it signifies the opportunity to attain an increased rank.  
  
…It's unlikely that Oliver has improved much during the year; consequentially, it's unlikely that his name is included in the list of promotions to the next tier.  
  
It takes a couple more clicks before he gets a confirmation (yet again) of Oliver's weakness.  
  
He supposes that if there's anything to be blamed for his actions, it's the way Grand Romania just makes things too easy. Promotions, eventually to pilot status, are what keeps trainees from spending unholy amounts of time training and obsessing about training, but said promotion verdicts are way too easy to subvert and change.  
  
See, it only takes one click!  
  
He knows that by changing this verdict, he exposes himself to the risk of getting detected by the cyber security team, just as he exposes Oliver to even more hatred and bullying from his peers.  
  
But well, this is just a curious prank.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
The Health Research Department is surprisingly high-tech, with wide plasma screens that monitor the status of his body functions, with state-of-the-art equipment that he didn't expect Grand Romania to spend money on. He hasn't visited any of the underground cities, but he has seen the pictures of the abysmal state of the underground centers. Grand Romania isn't a country that allocates funds to maintain the well-being of its citizens, but its officials do apparently realize the importance of making sure that their pilots remain healthy to be useful.  
  
He rubs the medicinal patch on his upper left shoulder, the pain radiating with the motion of the pads of his fingers. The new injection still stings a little bit. The values displayed on the screens inform him that his body remains unstable currently, because the serum is still on its way to make the necessary changes in his body.  
  
The doctors tell him that the medicine is to make sure that his hair strands leave their current dry, wiry state and return to their original golden color. The drug is supposedly also able to counteract the discoloration of his irises. The medication is supposed to cure whatever disease is infecting his bloodstream.  
  
But he knows better.  
  
The hourly injections aren't there to return him to normality.  
  
They want him to forcefully evolve into a superior being that can be useful to their campaigns. His condition worsens each time he allows the serum to be directly injected to his veins: his hair becomes brittle to touch, his eyes ache, his thoughts stray into a million different paths that all lead to nowhere. It's an experimental drug, he understands as much, even if his direct supervisor tries his best to pretend that the country isn't poisoning his body slowly.  
  
…Not like it matters anyway.  
  
He's going to continue offering his hands to the doctors with downcast eyes and he's going to continue letting them replace his blood with whatever drug they're developing in order to create their strongest soldier. It's all in preparation for the inevitable confrontation with the strongest representative of the strongest country in the world.  
  
His time is dwindling into nothingness and there's nothing he wishes to do about it.  
  
***  
  
His confinement is about to breach the two-month mark. It's a countdown that he's only aware of because of the displays on the screens in front of him; his sense of time has long faded into murky consciousness, after all. On his own, it's extremely difficult to keep track of the flow of time. Of course that's to be expected: his days are filled with drug injections, tests and more tests. There's no resemblance to a normal person's normal life.  
  
Whenever he opens his eyes, he's treated to a sight of himself partly reflected on the containment glass cylinder's surface. He didn't recognize himself at first, but he supposes that the only real changes that have occurred to his appearance are linked to the change in the colors of his hair and his eyes. He's used to seeing blood, but the sight of it inside his irises still jolts him every now and then.  
  
Two months ago, the Health Research Department was a little cramped, with more than twenty samples for the serum for inducing the so-called Bloody Beast Disease. Now, he's the only research subject left alive.  
  
He's observed other, weaker, subjects fall deep into the influence of the disease's constant decaying of brain matter. He's witnessed half-turned-monsters rampaging without any sense of surroundings and without any concern about killing any bystanders. He's watched his own limbs move lighter-faster-stronger, even without conscious effort from himself.  
  
He is going to be released from his quarantine quite soon. He honestly thinks that the research team is a little stupid for releasing someone like him to the headquarters without any of the confinements present now. He is definitely going to grow berserk, triggered by some outside stimulus, and he isn't going to want to stop himself from killing everyone in his vicinity. There's definitely going to be a one-sided massacre once he's released to the unsuspecting public. There's definitely going to be a spike in the body count within the staff members and pilot trainees, but it seems that the worst-case scenario is still within the desired outcomes of this research team.  
  
Well.  
  
He isn't terribly concerned about the wellbeing of anyone else, so it doesn't really matter to him if he ends up killing maybe a few hundred more. He does dislike being considered superior, but he isn't going to deliberately weaken himself just so he can avoid being the best. No, it doesn't matter to him if he does end up soiling his hands with a few more buckets of blood.  
  
…There is something that seems to be missing, something that he hasn't had contact with for the past two months of his isolation. He can't quite remember what it is, but if it's so important, he's bound to recall it eventually, right?  
  
Well, whatever it is, he's going to end up destroying it as soon as the binds around his body are released.  
  
***  
  
Escaping from another political discussion meeting is hardly acceptable behavior from someone as revered as him, but he doesn't really care. Grand Romania isn't losing anything by allowing him freedom now, since it's not like he has any valuable insight on creating military strategies and what-not. He possesses awareness about the things going on around the world, but that's nothing special compared to the data and theories that the bureaucrats have obtained after spending time, money and effort pooled into studying the different factors that make the world go round. He's always been the hands-on type when it comes to making any sort of contribution to society, so he'd really just rather do whatever action plan they end up devising, instead of spending time glued to his chair thinking about possible outcomes and consequences.  
  
Of course, a huge part of his disinclination to participate in strategy meetings is because he loathes the idea of sitting still while doing disinteresting things. He's more willing to spend time messing around with people whose reactions fascinate him. That's primarily the reason why he's stalking the hallways that are rather unfamiliar to him.  
  
These halls are reserved for trainees that have been promoted to the next series of tiers, but a top-rank pilot like him doesn't have much experience when it comes to navigating around this place. The floors are made of strengthened glass, supposedly crystal clear, supposedly fragile-looking. He doesn't give much thought to criticizing the design of the floors and the entire headquarters itself, though he does feel bewildered about the strange choice of floor-material.  
  
Aimlessly, he ambles around, distantly thinking about how his supervisor is definitely scouring the security cameras for his presence. He didn't ask for any permission to miss the meeting after all. Furthermore, it's not like they have given him distinct permission to show his new appearance to anybody else outside of the Health Research Department.  
  
While he does roam around the corridors in hopes of stumbling upon Oliver and tormenting that brat to relieve the tension curling around his bones, he doesn't really mind the thought of getting captured before then. He's fine even if his supervisor finds him and drags him to the meeting room, because it's not like Grand Romania is big enough for some serious hide-and-seek. It's just that, if he can escape from his responsibilities, then that'd be more preferable.  
  
There's only a few more months, weeks even, before the scheduled battle with Rei and that's the unspoken countdown to the end of his life.  
  
He understands his own strength, better than anyone, that's why he doesn't even think there's a chance for survival.  
  
It's been a couple of years already in this world that is terribly unkind to human beings, so bowing out of the grand stage of life isn't so distasteful or horrid. He's planning on enjoying himself, of going all-out in the fight against Rei, but he's also planning on making the most of his time until then.  
  
He isn't interested on sparing time for things he dislikes.  
  
"—My supervisors are all nagging me, scolding me for promoting a useless brat like you, berating me for not questioning the promotion verdict, and now they want to expel me from my job—because of you! They want to fire me! ME! They want to punish me, all because of YOU!"  
  
Blah, blah, blah.  
  
Really?  
  
Those idiots allowed that verdict to push through?  
  
While he was the one who actually played around with the database in order to screw up the passing verdicts in order to allow Oliver to be promoted to the next tier along with his fellow trainees, he didn't expect then for his changes to be approved by the trainee supervisors or by the in-class trainer.   
  
Nobody actually questioned Oliver's promotion—not until it was too late?  
  
Oh, this is definitely why Grand Romania remains a third-rate country.  
  
They're plenty stupid, aren't they?  
  
They make it too easy for others to trample them.  
  
A computer drops to the glass floors, the sound falling like an ominous drumbeat. Oliver is completely surrounded by his current set of tormentors, amazing him just how many people hate Oliver and his existence. It's almost amazing, how one person can accumulate that much hatred.  
  
[What's up, useless brother?]  
  
He blinks.  
  
The computer should be damaged beyond repair. Instead, it lets an electronic sound escape from its speakers. Foolishly like a human being, the sound continues to resonate in the hallway where Oliver is about to receive a beating worse than all his previous beatings combined.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]  
  
It's a program that seems simple to simplistic minds. A program that can mimic a person's voice, as well as adjust its replies accordingly based on the situation: it's a first-class software that can take even a seasoned computer programmer a year to finish. There's no way Grand Romania allows trainees like Oliver access to programming lessons; there's no way Oliver has had any computer programming-related courses when they were still young children at Herzog Kingdom.  
  
That can only mean that Oliver managed to somehow learn to make this type of voice software through self-study, during his free time.  
  
[Don't tell me you just want to waste my time? That'll be super uncool!]  
  
He isn't wrong then, to challenge the brat into proving his intelligence. That challenge is temporarily forgotten, placed on hold because he's been busy with the experiments done to his own body, but there's still something there right now, something worthwhile.  
  
Trainees that are too weak physically-mentally-emotionally surround the person they rightfully consider the weakest.  
  
[I try my best to forget about your existence. That works most of the time, idiot.]  
  
…He'll probably do that as well, forgetting about Oliver's existence, sooner rather than later. But for now, he still remembers the pitiful teenager hunched protectively in front of the computer that he's spent months programming into something wonderful, into something brilliant.   
  
He isn't here to save Oliver, no.  
  
He's just here because he's bored and he's not yet caught by his supervisor—and because that synthetic voice program is something that couldn't have been born into fruition without the help of a brilliant mind nurturing its growth.   
  
That's all there is to it.  
  
…Plus, he's starting to feel the indescribable itch on his fingertips, an insurmountable urge to make his surroundings flow with a downpour of blood.  
  
It will definitely not do him any favors if he ends up damaging the brat's skull before he finishes showing off all the amazing, intelligent things he's capable of doing.  
  
He kicks Oliver sharply, pleased with the trajectory that sends the brat a couple of meters away. He watches the way Oliver crashes to the wall back-first, satisfied with how that feeble body slumps forward in weakness, like a puppet discarded by its master. He isn't rescuing Oliver per se, because he's actually saving him for the last, because he's rather interested in tormenting the brat personally, more attentively. He'd like to get rid of everyone else first, especially since they're looking at him like he's some kind of monster that they aren't aware of.  
  
He wants to laugh at them, because really? They only noticed that he's a monster now?  
  
Talk about dense.  
  
[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Hey! Are you ignoring me?! You actually dare to ignore?! A useless, stupid person like you, is ignoring someone like me?! How irritating!]  
  
"Shut up," he takes a step closer to the discarded computer that somehow still works, "you're noisy."  
  
[H-H-H-How dare you?! Who are you anyway?! You're not my eternal loser brother!]  
  
"Voice recognition, huh?" It's only been a few months since he has introduced Oliver to that computer room; it's only been a few months then, since he first started knowing how to make this type of software. It's really amazing on how much Oliver was able to accomplish in that short span of time, even if that accomplishment is ultimately useless and fruitless when compared to the entire workings of the world. He picks up the computer and speaks directly to the microphone button embedded on the center of the keyboard. "I told you to shut up."  
  
[...Program entering forced hibernation mode. Saving data, saving data, progress 100%]  
  
How curious indeed. Oliver's also been able to program a forced hibernation mode—something that forcibly saves everything once faced with harmful stimuli? He's rather interested in the fact that his voice, or maybe it was words, is considered dangerous even by inanimate objects. That software catches on to his real nature much quicker compared to the wide-eyed trainees gaping at him, still frazzled by his appearance and rooted dumbly to their spots.  
  
"A-A-A-A-AHHHH—! It's a beast! A monster! Quick! Call the security team! Faster, before it—!"  
  
He pats his pockets, belatedly realizing that they're empty.   
  
His eyes register panic and fear on the trainees-humans-prey-toys-prey in front of him.   
  
They proclaim him a beast.   
  
He looks down at his hands.  
  
Hmm, he can't see his hands because he's still holding on to that computer.  
  
Wait, why is he holding a computer?  
  
…  
  
He can't remember.  
  
It's probably not important.  
  
Should he just throw this computer away?  
  
…  
  
No!  
  
No?  
  
No.  
  
Okay.  
  
He slowly places the computer down on the clear floors.  
  
He sees his reflection on the glass surface.  
  
That doesn't… look like him.  
  
He doesn't have red eyes or silver hair, does he?  
  
…Does he?  
  
Does it even matter, in the end?  
  
It's just hair color.  
  
It's just eye color, additionally.  
  
It's okay.  
  
Isn't it?  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes?  
  
Yes!  
  
Why is he here again?  
  
He's here for something important.  
  
…  
  
He can't remember.  
  
If he can't remember, then it isn't important.  
  
…Right?  
  
Right!  
  
"…Long time no see." There's something talking to him. How funny. Why would something talk to him? Does he even know how to speak? He does? He does. Oh. "How are you feeling?"  
  
What?  
  
What!  
  
He doesn't feel anything.  
  
He's a monster, isn't he?  
  
That's why there are ants running around screaming.  
  
…Right?  
  
Why are there screaming ants?  
  
Can ants scream?  
  
Well, they can.   
  
Can't they?  
  
He's a monster surrounded by ants then, ants that scream, he thinks.  
  
Aren't ants supposed to be squashed?  
  
…Right.  
  
…Especially if they're screaming?  
  
…Yes?  
  
Yes!  
  
…Yes.  
  
"Shut up." He tells the ants that are screaming. He tells the ants that look at him—right—like he's a monster. He tells the thing looking like an abandoned, broken, crippled doll. "Shut up!"  
  
"—Yes, yes, it's an escaped beast! …What do you mean there are no beasts inside the tower? I'm telling you, there's a wild beast here! I don't care if it's a top-secret military thing or whatever, but you need to help us!"  
  
He's a wild beast?  
  
He's a monster.  
  
But he's also a wild beast?  
  
He looks down at his hands and sees red.  
  
Why is he seeing red?  
  
Oh, must be the blood on his eyes.  
  
Wait, why is there blood on his eyes?  
  
What the hell is happening to his eyes?!  
  
"It's not a beast," the thing struggles to stand, to crawl, to kneel, but it's advancing slowly but surely, "can't you see it's—"  
  
…He's not a beast?  
  
…He's not a monster?  
  
…He's…  
  
What is he, then?  
  
"OH HOLY HELL—! IT'S MR. ASH VLASTVIER!"  
  
He's—  
  
…Ash Vlastvier?  
  
That's his name?  
  
Yes!  
  
Yes?  
  
Yes.  
  
Oh.  
  
Okay then.  
  
If he's Ash Vlastvier then his job is—  
  
…To be the Vlastvier heir?  
  
…To be the number one pilot of Grand Romania?  
  
…To be the most terrifying monster that can walk the land?  
  
Oh, that must be it.  
  
He sees the thing's green eyes go wide. He recognizes shock there, with very little amounts of fear. He thinks he remembers this thing in front of him.  
  
Why?  
  
Does it matter?  
  
Hmm, no, it doesn't.  
  
Okay then.  
  
If it's important, then he'll remember it.  
  
For now, his instincts are telling him that he's here because he wants a fountain of blood.  
  
He dislikes the crystal clear floors.  
  
He is a man of action.  
  
He does what he wants.  
  
Even if he isn't a man?  
  
Even if he's a monster.  
  
Yes.  
  
He should cover the crystal clear floors, if he dislikes them so much.  
  
He should paint every single corner of this hallway then, so that he won't have to look at his reflection again.  
  
The ants are screaming again.  
  
They're rather noisy.  
  
They wouldn't make any noise after they're squashed flat, would they?  
  
Oh!  
  
The first ant he crushes makes a gurgling sound, but quiets down afterward.  
  
He grins.  
  
He's happy that he finally finds a solution that can solve two of his problems.  
  
He can stop the ants from screaming and he gets to cover the floors with free paint!  
  
He waves his hand around, a thin sword in his grip, creating arcs of destruction effortlessly.  
  
"Yes, I'm Ash Vlastvier, and now that you know who I am, I have to kill you."  
  
…Not that his name has any relationship with his almost frenzied desire to kill.  
  
He's only killing them because he hates glass floors and he hates noisy ants.  
  
Oh—and also because he can't remember why he's even here in a floor unsuited for his name and status.  
  
He'll stop killing these pathetic excuses for insects once he remembers his purpose for being here.  
  
That's what he thinks.  
  
…He does run out of things to kill quite soon, even before he can even start recalling the important thing that he's here for. He takes a deep breath and listens for any signs of potential prey. He only notices the thing from earlier, with wide green eyes and unkempt blond hair. He thinks he can remember the thing's name but he isn't quite sure. He barely manages to hold on to his own name and he dislikes the thought of remembering the wrong name.  
  
He frowns.  
  
Why should it matter anyway?  
  
He watches the thing lean heavily against the wall.  
  
Why is he even wasting time here?  
  
He rotates his shoulder a little bit, stretching, before he decides to punch the thing by its face.  
  
He thinks his fist connects with a left cheekbone, but he isn't interested to know the details.  
  
He idly observes the thing dig its elbows futilely against the walls, masochistically worsening his agony, before it skids to a stop and vomits all over the place.   
  
Well.  
  
He supposes that the other is contributing to his desire to dirty the too-clear floors.  
  
He walks closer to the thing, intent on bringing Oliver out of his misery.  
  
…?!  
  
Oliver.  
  
Yes, that's the name of the thing.  
  
Why would he remember such a pitiful person?  
  
Oliver's hands are meekly raised defensively in front of Oliver's body, Oliver's fists leveled with Oliver's chest, in order to protect Oliver's self from his approach.  
  
Oliver.  
  
Oliver thinks he can protect himself against his approach.  
  
HA!  
  
HA!  
  
HA!  
  
How funny!  
  
How pathetic!  
  
But isn't he more pathetic, for remembering the name of someone like Oliver?  
  
HA!  
  
HA!  
  
HA!  
  
He swipes at the other's knees with another well-placed kick. He reaches for the bruised elbows just as the other's knees sink to the floor. He drags the other upward to keep him away from the dirty floors and to slam him hard against the dirty walls.  
  
Oliver's eyes are glowing splendidly green, a shade dissimilar to his name, vibrant hue standing out even if his vision is stained thick with crimson.   
  
Just as suddenly, the memory trickles back to his consciousness, the reason for his presence here in a corridor that can't even hope to contain his concentrated power. He's here because he wants to mess around with Oliver, to send the other's world into utter disarray for his amusement, to observe the other's intelligence floundering in a world that only awards brute strength.  
  
He looks at the broken body beneath him.  
  
Everything around him drips red with flowers that will never have the chance to bloom, but Oliver remains alive—barely—in his hold, continuing to grasp the edges of life even if he looks and acts as if he's just too keen to welcome death. Oliver's passiveness remains a prime source of his irritation, but seeing the other's progress in evolving into a being that's still within the bounds of humanity… it's enough to pique his interest, even just mildly.  
  
He thinks he ends up murmuring the other's name in the miniscule space that struggles to separate the two of them, but he isn't quite sure.   
  
It's not important.  
  
He presses a tentative kiss against the other's chapped lips, waiting for his instinct to surge up again so that he'll know what he needs to do next. The natural course of action doesn't claw out from his subconscious; the urge to take a small step back comes from the thought that he doesn't really understand what he's doing.   
  
But does he need his thoughts for this?  
  
He shouldn't.  
  
He declines to tax his mind to think about military strategies—this is an even lesser concern, compared to moves that can affect millions of lives in just one moment.  
  
That decides it then.  
  
He shifts his grip on Oliver, digs his fingers into arms that are too puny to withstand any of the tests and injections he's been subjected to for the past two months. He bridges the gap between them again, bites the edge of a bruised upper lip. He isn't doing this to make Oliver feel anything but increased pain. His previous methods at tormenting Oliver seem to be weakening; Oliver's too used to the constant beatings for his injuries to matter. This is just another way to alleviate the boredom and tension that's insistently crawling across his skin.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
One of the new policies, he's been informed, is to record and broadcast the following skirmishes with pilots from the other countries. He isn't terribly fond of being placed under the spotlight, but it isn't like he has valid reasons to protest against the new methods of gathering more supporters under Grand Romania's thirst for conquest. It isn't like he's incredibly annoyed at his actions being monitored; he's been under stricter surveillance when he was still an important member of a celebrated family back at Herzog Kingdom. Enduring this much is child's play compared to everything else that he has done and everything else that must happen to him.  
  
The resulting AETHER has too many hands, resulting in a SPHERE that's rather difficult to control. He needs to keep track of the multitudes of limbs and make sure that he doesn't damage himself with the thermal expansion capability located at the 'palms' of its 'hands'. He adjusts the temperature of AETHER's 'palms', calculates the difference between melting off his own armor and melting the opponent's. He decides on 3300°C, with a leeway of a 100°C loss for conduction between two imperfect metals.   
  
His opponent isn't… very good.  
  
He can read the desperation controlling her every movement. She's older than him, according to the records, but she has very little experience, he can tell certainly even if he didn't pay much attention to the enemy pilot data compilation that's been handed to him last week. She relies too much on her SPHERE and on the top-class toys Central Tower equips all of its pilots with. Without the highly destructive Zwei Cannon on her side, her capabilities are decisively diminished by half. It's only a matter of time before she succumbs to her inevitable defeat.  
  
He doesn't gather much enjoyment from this kind of one-sided fight. There's no point in battling with someone resigned to one's fate, especially if that fate entails a future of blankness. He doesn't have any interest in holding someone's hand as he guides her into her funeral.   
  
She's definitely a sacrificial lamb—not that she knows it. She's the bait that Central Tower has heartlessly tossed to the Grand Romania that's so eager to prove their newly acquired firepower.  
  
Well.  
  
There's not much point dwelling on it at this point, since it's not like he's going to stop following the mission orders handed down to him.  
  
Destroying things is easy to comprehend.  
  
He likes that.  
  
He yawns from behind the controls, even as he readies a coordinated blow with Arms 10 and 12. His attack fails to decapitate the enemy SPHERE, but he, instinctively, knows that he's successful in damaging the enemy's left arm.  
  
This battle with Central Tower is supposed to lure someone within the top three pilots out. If the mission plans succeed, it's going to be the infamous Slayer who will battle with him. He's looking forward to that: OPHAN and its pilot will provide a more entertaining fight than the pilot he's relentlessly bullying right now.  
  
He sends out a couple more arms to wrap around the enemy machine's armor, with the goal of either melting the metal armor completely or at least severing major connector cables here and there. He observes the sluggish movement of the enemy and decides that it's not going to take up more than two minutes to finish her off. It's an unsightly ending, but he isn't the type to draw out a one-sided massacre. He isn't that cruel, he thinks.  
  
This video is undoubtedly going to be edited a lot. That knowledge isn't enough to make him hold back the force behind his attacks, as he neatly dodges the desperate attack aimed for his pilot seat, as he wickedly retaliates by shoving AETHER's main arm to the enemy's cockpit. The privacy screen on his seat breaks with the enemy's attack, but it doesn't give him any sort of damage, so he just smirks at the pilot gasping out her final breath.  
  
Well, this should be the end.  
  
Environmental values suddenly spike, especially the inside barometers.  
  
…He's late.  
  
But he's here.  
  
He un-hides the video communication link to the headquarters. He frowns when he hears nothing from the other side even if they're obviously speaking to him. He discreetly unmutes the video feed after a few seconds, belatedly remembering that he did mute the communication line because his motivation plummets whenever there are people manipulating his actions unsubtly.   
  
He calls back the tentacle-like hands, sheaths them inside their holding cylinders as he awaits the arrival of Central Tower's incredibly delayed backup, as he listens for comprehensible instructions from the headquarters. He pulls out AETHER's main hand from the enemy's damaged cockpit, leaving behind torn cables and splashes of blood. There's very little chance that his opponent is able to survive such devastation, but he dislikes being uncertain, so he stomps on the cockpit just to be sure, uses a little more force than necessary. There should be nothing left there that can be considered remotely human; he doesn't stop trampling on the remains of his enemy until he sees Central Tower's OPHAN land a few kilometers away.  
  
OPHAN is still on its Chariot Mode, so it's possible that the reason for the incredible delay is because all Central Tower pilots are out of the country and are on missions presently. He grins at the golden opportunity that presents itself in front of him. While he's not that concerned over things like the country's image or worthlessness like the country's goals, he is itching for a good fight, something that the previous match lacked. OPHAN is a top-class SPHERE, definitely, but he thinks AETHER is well-made too, and he has a very good chance of dealing damage to The Slayer.  
  
He's quite ready to start exchanging blows with the SPHERE surrounded by defensive angelic wings, whether headquarters issues him an approval or not. Thankfully for his patience, headquarters gives him the green signal.  
  
He doesn't waste time in refocusing the power allocations from the tentacle-hands and diverting most of his power supply to the four main limbs of AETHER. He jumps, crossing the kilometer-wide gap with just one move, grinning manically once he practically tastes the surprise from The Slayer and once he hears the cheers of exultation from the headquarters. He takes out his short sword, easily taking a swipe towards OPHAN's cockpit, satisfied when the wings move like laser waves in order to defend the most important part of the machine without any bit of hesitation or delay.  
  
This is going to be a difficult fight, but that's what makes this interesting.  
  
The Slayer isn't going to be defeated easily and it's that aggressiveness that he enjoys from his opponents.  
  
He's saving up on fuel because he never knows when he'll get sandwiched between two or more enemy SPHEREs, because he never knows when it will be more prudent to make a hasty escape. He doesn't allocate any energy for the thermal expansion capability of AETHER's limbs; witnessing the effect of his SPHERE's secret attack against his opponent is more than enough to clue him into the fact that no other SPHEREs manufactured at the moment possess enough durability to resist melting off at that high a centigrade. Using that ability will skew this fight unfairly to his favor; he doesn't want that to taint this fight that he's been looking forward to for quite some time.  
  
OPHAN is an all-rounder machine, though its mobility deserves special recognition.  
  
Well.  
  
He'll fight toe-to-toe with OPHAN then when it comes to maneuvers.  
  
That decided, he goes ahead and shoves AETHER's right hand directly to the junction between the forefront wheels. His grin widens when the defensive wings strain to reach his attack and futilely attempts to block it. With this, OPHAN should forcibly revert to its more combative form instead of its transportation form—The Slayer should understand that he isn't an opponent that can be defeated half-heartedly.  
  
True to his expectations, OPHAN then unleashes an earsplitting noise wave that rattles the screws and cables connecting AETHER. He reflexively covers his ears against the onslaught on his eardrums and realizes that his SPHERE goes ahead and removes its main limbs from their cozy position shoved inside OPHAN's innards. OPHAN doesn't waste a moment in accelerating to the opposite direction, widening the gap between their machines to a more comfortable distance.  
  
He watches, with great interest, OPHAN transform in front of his eyes: watches wheels get rolled inside the bulky frame while robotic feet descend down from the folds of the machine's insides. The defensive wings expand to accommodate the offense-specialized laser ray tubes that radiate out from the destructive angel's back.  
  
This is definitely a sight to behold: a clash between an angel and a devil yet both sides have terrifying strength backing them, both sides have body counts that can rival world wars' casualty lists.  
  
He savors this moment, this deafening moment of absolute contentment, this one moment in the flow of his own dwindling time.  
  
He knows he isn't allowed to go all-out on this battlefield, because he is being reserved for the clash against Central Tower's 01.  
  
But he can bend the rules a little bit, he supposes, for his own selfish interests every once in a while.  
  
It's just for the sake of fighting an interesting fight.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
Oh, for fuck's sake.  
  
[CODE 999]  
[All pilots are to report to the launching hangar, proceed to launch codes 999-RED in 120 seconds]  
[All staff are to report to their respective 999 positions, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]  
[All trainees are to report to their respective emergency pads, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]  
[All civilians are to report to their assigned evacuation centers, proceed to emergency process flows code 999-RED in 600 seconds]  
[CODE 999, ALERT, CODE 999]  
  
Won't that annoying alarm stop?  
  
It's been almost a month since he managed to last cross paths with Oliver and he's been itching to deliver yet another beatdown to the brat, but no thanks to some incredibly dumb people orchestrating a horrendously stupid surprise attack, his chance to release his stress and to even make Black's life a living hell… is gone.  
  
He was itching to start delivering his much-deserved punishment, mainly because it's no good if Oliver starts thinking that he has that much free time to actually go around and save him from his daily routine of getting savagely injured.  
  
The alarm codes won't stop from ringing incessantly, echoing outside in the launch hangar, ricocheting inside his skull. He's all set to fight, since AETHER's launch protocols are all cleared, all-green. It's Grand Romania's system that isn't able to keep up with his speed. It's definitely an improvement since his previous performances; he left the hallways at the same time that Black did, but Black and his SPHERE are not even halfway finished with the launching sequence.  
  
He expects it before a communication link opens up on his display screen: the ashamed admission of the engineers at the command center bridge that they screwed something up in their haste to follow the steps on the extremely rare CODE 999 emergency alert. That's the only possible explanation behind the extreme delay between the unblocking of the launch pads. Of course it's always the important things that get screwed during an extremely important situation.   
  
"I'll go," he mutters with a shrug of his shoulders, because he just wants the obnoxious alarm to stop. Never mind that he isn't the front line pilot for this kind of situation, because his top priority is designated to being the last line of defense in case there's a breach of the headquarters' security. He's better suited to leading the counter-attack and he's the only one with enough security access to override the block on the launch pads anyway.  
  
He ignores the overlapping explanations because they're all just trying to delay the inevitable.  
  
After adjusting the cables linked to his arms, he moves on to skip the health diagnostic tests for pilots. He knows he'll fail that diagnostic anyway, because even if he isn't very knowledgeable regarding medical stuff, he understands his own body the best, and he understands the unnatural spike in his blood pressure and the unusual spots that appear on his vision every now and then. Definitely a side-effect of the experimental drugs they keep on pumping into his bloodstream. Definitely untreatable, given that his own symptoms are being caused by his own doctors.  
  
He clears the security clearances with a retinal scan and fingerprint scan. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembers a glimpse of Oliver's bruised face. The expression on that weakling's face when he interfered with the bullying party… the solemn expression that radiates acceptance and enlightenment about his pathetic situation… the strange courage that spikes every now and then from beneath a layer of passive cowardice. He remembers that as the blockades retreat one by one, as his AETHER progressively rolls forward so that he can meet the idiots who are currently attempting to launch a failed sneak attack.  
  
—"Ash—" and that weakling only hesitated for a split-second, "Ash Vlastvier—STOP!"   
  
He shakes his head, the motion mimicked by his own SPHERE. It's useless to continue pondering about Oliver's uncharacteristic outburst earlier. He has a fight he is going to win unfolding in front of him.  
  
Visual recognition identifies the intruders as representatives from the United Nations of Nobility: both enemy SPHEREs proudly bearing the superfluous crest of their country. There are no rank designations on the UNN's pilot roster, though he supposes that the enemy will not easily send two people for a sneak attack if they don't have even the slightest bit of confidence on their fighters. Of course, he can't entirely rule out the possibility that UNN is stupidly suicidal when it comes to ideas of conquests, but he'd like to think and assume that the enemy have an inkling of a logical plan behind their actions. It's incredibly difficult to fight against insane and stupid opponents, since it's hard to apply concepts of logic on their actions, making them unpredictable.  
  
In this type of situation, it will be ideal if he can kill one pilot and capture the remaining one for information extraction. He doesn't have enough fuel to power all of the tentacle-like limbs coiled inside his AETHER's body; he's going to have to make sure he fulfills his mission then even with lesser firepower. He idly hopes that he'll have enough presence of mind not to just mindlessly slaughter everything in his sight, since the fight is going to happen while within the headquarters' proximity. Indiscriminate attacks will certainly damage the headquarters, so he can't attack with reckless abandon.  
  
A delicate situation—he needs to strike a balance then.  
  
United Nations of Nobility operates under a secretive façade, with its pilots identities under heavy protection from persistence for information regarding their private lives. Unlike most of the countries that prefer to broadcast the identities and personalities of their ace pilots, UNN seems to think that keeping the pilots' lives away from the public eye is somehow more regal, more respectable.  
  
The only information available to him then comprises the data of the attacking SPHEREs. That's fine with him; he isn't terribly interested in knowing unimportant details about his opponents' private lives, about his enemies' personality quirks. He isn't going to treat them with any more mercy if he somehow understands their life story, after all.  
  
Ironically, the attacking SPHEREs are named after the seven virtues. There's nothing virtuous about landing a sneak attack on a country they're not even officially at war with. But then he supposes that it's not his job to question these things. After all, philosophy and logical arguments are mere sophistry when it comes to troubled times.  
  
He doesn't give PURITY a chance to defend when he re-allocates a larger portion of his fuel to AETHER's legs in order to give a sudden boost to his movement. Everything accelerates, the cables digging into his legs and calves as he spins on the balls of his feet along with the SPHERE he's manipulating. He stretches his right leg out, performing a pirouette of sorts while releasing the long blade hidden inside his legs' armor; the protruding blade then damages PURITY's armor effortlessly as he spins three more times. He slows down the rotation on his left leg as he re-sheathes the blade, before he plants both feet on solid ground again.  
  
The second SPHERE is located at a farther location, but it's not much further, especially given his burst movements. KINDNESS doesn't display any of its namesake traits, as it doesn't even attempt to rescue PURITY from the onslaught of short-distance attacks that AETHER inflicts.  
  
He jumps behind PURITY, making the half-damaged SPHERE a shield against sniping attacks from KINDNESS. He loathes being on a defensive stance, but this is a win-win opportunity. He doesn't expect KINDNESS to shoot down its comrade, but in the event that KINDNESS does… then that will make for sensational publicity against UNN and its supposedly noble ideals of utopian goodness. He's fairly certain that his shields will be able to withstand more so it's not like he'll be seriously damaged in case KINDNESS receives an order to sacrifice a fellow UNN pilot.  
  
The enemy then does something not within his immediate expectations though: KINDNESS focuses its sniping cannon on the base of the headquarters, targeting the foundations of Grand Romania's tower, instead of acknowledging the fact that its comrade is caught in a dangerous situation.  
  
He smirks then, interest piqued by the weaklings that attempt to bite back in the worst possible way.  
  
He doesn't give a damn about Grand Romania's headquarters, so he lodges an exploding tag inside a hole made by his right hand shoving into PURITY's upper back, before he shoves his 'shield' forward, away from his space. With a manic grin and a crimson-stained vision, he blatantly ignores the warning notifications and chiming sounds that accompany his activation of half of his tentacle-limbs and their thermal expansion ability.   
  
Somehow, he's overcome with the need to wholly damage his opponents, a desire that he doesn't question.  
  
He doesn't have enough fuel to completely execute his attack with enough power left to counteract any possible emergencies and dangers. He knows that it's possible that the enemies are hiding some cleverly concealed reinforcements or weapons. He knows that it's stupidly dangerous to charge in heatedly without any concrete plan.  
  
…But why should he care?  
  
And won't that annoying alarm stop?  
  
He wants to see a fountain of blood, maybe the geyser of red liquid will wash off the stains on his eyes.  
  
…Maybe?  
  
The sniping cannon melts as soon as one his unraveled tentacle-limbs wrap around the bullet barrel. He thinks he can hear some sounds coming through the communication link, but he doesn't care enough to strain his ears to listen past the thundering heartbeat that pulses inside his skull.   
  
He thinks he can hear shouts at him to stop his attacks, but why should he listen to them?  
  
They're voices that don't exist.  
  
…Right?  
  
***  
  
"Great job on defending the country today," pilot number whatever gushes like a broken record, bewilderingly looking excited and ashamed at once, "I knew we can count on you!"  
  
Pilot-something joins the chorus of meaningless praises, "You're really the best, Mr. Vlastvier! Do you have like, a technique name, or like, a special attack name, or something, for your attacks? I think I can, like, learn a lot from your fight today! Promise!"  
  
He frowns as he tries to focus on the bandages on his legs to no avail. He's undergoing the post-launch physical checkup and the doctor is murmuring some unintelligible explanations and excuses for the constant bleeding of his irises, as well as the unnatural bruising on his legs. He has performed a similar burst movement during his previous fights, but it's only today that he actually gets bruised for his efforts. He isn't growing weaker—on the contrary, his mission values and physical statistics are higher than ever—but his body is somehow becoming more… fragile.  
  
Disgusted, he then focuses his gaze on the two pilots—or hell, there're more than two of them—huddling around him. They all look at him with starry eyes, like he's some sort of hero that they need to emulate or some pathetic shit like that. They must think it's their lucky day or something, to be this close to him and to be this near the event of the number one pilot getting patched up after some valiant act of saving the entire country.   
  
…Or something.  
  
His supervisor is busy reading the mission data, preoccupied with the numbers instead of helping hasten this check-up. Frankly, he just wants this health check-up to be over with—again, all his medical problems are caused by the medical team treating him, so this is just a bunch of fruitless endeavors—so he can return to his room and rest. Anything will be more helpful than getting surrounded by adoring admirers who don't really understand the concept of being a terrifying force in the battlefield and the sacrifices that go along with his status. If only they knew how broken his mind is, if only they knew how crazy his thoughts could get, if only they knew how many lives he carelessly destroys… nobody, in their right mind, would want to idolize him.  
  
They should despise his existence thoroughly, should look at him with eyes filled with furious hate, should regard him as some unwanted obstacle to a better life.  
  
They should not want the superiority that cloaks him.  
  
"How did you even do that attack?"  
"Did you see how he spun around like AETHER was nothing?!"  
"It's like there's no burden, like, at all!"  
"Mr. Vlastvier, you're really super amazing!"  
"I joined the pilot trainings because I admired your strength and I really do feel blessed to be chosen to fight alongside you—"  
  
"Did you have to melt off their cockpits?" Black's cold irritation easily puts a damper on the strangely cheerful mood inside the command center, as the 02 pilot makes his way towards his seat. "You didn't have to do that, you know."  
  
"Really?" He inspects the non-existent dirt beneath his fingernails as he speaks, not acknowledging the person with arms crossed righteously in front of him. "I don't think someone who got stuck inside the launch hangar has any right to question my actions."  
  
"Hey, you—!"  
  
The excited mutterings that polluted the meager sounds of the room somehow reach a complete stop. He isn't blind to their keen interest in seeing the top two pilots argue about their differences. It's a pointless, perverse, pathetic interest that he doesn't really approve of, but it nevertheless holds true for the lesser-ranked pilots surrounding him.  
  
"Sorry to get in-between this discussion," with an authoritative voice despite being socially lower in rank, it's a benefit of being an adult, he supposes, "but I need to borrow Vlastvier for some post-mission evaluation."  
  
He does acknowledge the new addition to the suffocating sphere surrounding him, with a curt nod of his head to show his agreement with his direct supervisor and to simultaneously dismiss the others crowding around his injured form. He senses something off about the much older man, a surge of strange seriousness, but he obediently follows the other's brisk footsteps away from the crowded hall. He isn't overly worried about his supervisor's intentions, since he doesn't expect it to be anything too grave.  
  
He's proven wrong when his supervisor goes ahead and places an administrative lock on the meeting room they occupy.  
  
His sword is still inside AETHER, since he didn't think he'll need to slice someone up right after an emergency mission. He has confidence in his hand-to-hand combat skills, but if this is a planned attack on him, it's possible that his supervisor—whose name he still can't recall, even at an important moment like this—already has a gun or two prepared to counteract his counter-attack.   
  
Oh well.   
  
It's not like he can do much else at this point.  
  
He looks around the meeting room and notices some unnatural metal bars hanging from the low ceiling. Walls are pale gray with the dim light from the projector, just a blurry picture of blankness. The tables are all pushed back to one side, providing unbalanced space inside the meeting room. Numbness crawls upwards from his calves to his thighs, the loss of sensation spreading swiftly. He grins sardonically at the thought that even the doctor treating him earlier is involved in this ambush. Superiority is really a pain in the ass and definitely not worth the trouble, since it never fails to deliver him worse headaches each time he gets involved in some illogical bid for power and influence.  
  
"…What is this about?"  
  
"You didn't manage to capture a single intruder. You didn't manage to kill any of the attackers. You didn't manage to keep the headquarters undamaged. Do you need me to list all of your inadequacies, Ash Vlastvier?"  
  
Hmph.  
  
All logical complaints, but no.  
  
Those inadequacies, as they've been labeled, have nothing to do with this punishment room.  
  
He isn't stupid.  
  
"Why don't you tell me the real reason for your bad mood today, hmm?"  
  
He's not particularly interested in the answer, but since he's already dragged into this shitfest, might as well get to the bottom of this. That's the fastest way he can get disassociated with these problems.   
  
Judging from the way his supervisor's face darkens, like he has eaten something nasty, he definitely nailed it.  
  
"You—"  
  
Rage spills out like a geyser escaping from a narrow break in the earth, but the older man seems to regain a few strands of sanity and a little bit of adulthood when it comes to handling unpleasant situations.   
  
He sighs, a sharp exhale that represents his dissatisfaction with the situation, before he spins on his heel. Even his elbows feel paralyzed now, his vision swims underneath murky waves of dizziness, but as long as he can still hold on to his consciousness, he will be able to survive this room, without fail.  
  
"You are treated as if you are special. You are not. You are not. Even if they think you are, you aren't." Mantras are repeated for the sake of convincing oneself of facts. Truths are rather subjective, in that manner, because anything can be true with enough belief, with enough will, with enough insanity. His supervisor's mutters don't possess even a small glimmer of sanity coating them. "The Highest King doesn't think you're special too. He doesn't. You're not. He doesn't, because you're not special. No-no-no-no—not special, not special at all—"  
  
He… knows, understands, the way superiority clings to him, regardless of his will or his want. He is special, undoubtedly, even if there are people who would gladly deny that universal truth until they foam uselessly from their mouths. He waits, uncharacteristically patient, for the ranting to disclose the reason behind this inexplicable action.  
  
The answer to the little mystery arrives soon enough: with the way his supervisor starts threateningly waving a double-barrel gun around.  
  
"You're not special, but you're a strong little brat, I'll give you that." He doesn't bother pointing out that he may be a youngster compared to his supervisor, but he's also much stronger compared to anyone else in this country. "You're not even from this country yet we give you everything. And what do you do to repay The Highest King's benevolence? You do things that make him unhappy! How dare you do that, you piece of filth!"  
  
The King is someone he barely sees—not that he has any particular interest in seeing the older man more often—but his impression of him doesn't fit with a personality that enjoys being pampered like a spoiled little princess. He recognizes bloodlust on a fellow bloodthirsty person; the King didn't seem like someone who'd approve of having his supervisor running around crazily, devotedly, while trying to eliminate things that made him unhappy.  
  
"And now, The Highest King isn't even answering my calls ever since he met up with that brat you associate with!"  
  
Without even bothering with some false pretense about faking disinterest or feigning innocence, he responds automatically. "…What the fuck does Oliver have to do with this?"  
  
"Who the hell is Oliver?"  
  
A beat of silence, a few seconds to allow his supervisor's realization to catch up with his mind, and then the nasty sneer deepens on his supervisor's face.   
  
"You, who don't even care about things like names, call that worthless weakling so casually!"  
  
A hysterical, accusing tone takes over his supervisor's speech.  
  
He shrugs unpityingly, because he doesn't have any solid accusations to refute. He can call Oliver whatever he wants to call the brat, because he doesn't care about him in the slightest, aside from the few encounters they have. His interest only lasts for an entire encounter; there's no reason to change the way things have been going on.  
  
Knowing The King and his ideals that perfectly blend and mix with this country's obsession with strength and supremacy, Oliver probably got punished for a sin of simply existing, possibly got penalized even more to be taught a lesson about hierarchies and status quos that could never be breached even momentarily.   
  
Though now that The King is apparently unreachable after a 'meeting' with Oliver… it's entirely possible that there's something else then that happened. It still reeks of weirdness, the way The King takes time out of his schedule to even swing by the commoner's floor, especially during a dangerous, emergency situation. Illogicality drifts in and out of the set of events that happen today.  
  
"You're not special, not special, not special—"  
  
He sighs again. Without any method to forcibly lift the administratively lock imposed on this room's only exit, the only alternative that remains is to go along with his maddened supervisor's plans for now. It isn't difficult to guess what his supervisor wishes to do to him at this point. And since he isn't terribly well-known for subtlety or for being anything aside from a slaughtering machine, he easily removes his shirt even if his limbs are a little slow in coordinating properly. He lets the dirtied custom uniform fall silently to the floor, while he considers removing the bandages as well. Everything that has happened during the post-mission health checkup are now supremely useless—or will be soon rendered a complete waste of time.  
  
"…This is punishment," his supervisor whispers with a manic grin, a cross of pity and regret behind thick glasses, a thoughtless and broken expression on the face aged by the flow of time and the merciless turns of events.  
  
He just stands there, unmoving, colder than a block of stone, eyes screwed shut so that he won't see the bloodstains clouding his vision and overwhelming his senses to the point that he ends up killing his supervisor and simultaneously eliminating his only chance of leaving this room ever. There's a notable absence of pity or empathy in his body as he lets his supervisor unleash his frustrations about being left out of the loop by the King he adores above all else.   
  
He's only allowing this punishment session because this is the most efficient way of getting out of this locked room.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
Regretting his actions and their consequences is not within his style of doing things, but he is feeling something that can only be labeled as 'regret' right now, no doubt about it. There were a hundred possible retaliations he could have indulged in, the moment his supervisor finally gets a grip on his whirlwind emotions, the moment that his supervisor regained his senses enough to release the administrative lock that can only be willingly released in order to avoid getting trapped for eternity, the moment that he doesn't have to silently accept the unjustified punishments any longer. There were more than a handful of possibilities that he could have chosen from, but none of those prospects manage to leave the realm of probabilities and enter the field of reality.  
  
It's nearly three in the morning, not that time possesses any significance in a world completely locked away from everyone else. He briskly makes his way towards the residential quarters that he hasn't set foot in ever. There's something he wants to verify, something that he could have checked through another method, something that he chooses to confirm by confronting Oliver directly.  
  
There's no doubt that the King used his time wisely during the emergency attack, used the overall chaos that settled on everyone's eyes for them to witness the King leaving his post to reach a destination so far removed from his normality, used the citizens' innate response to follow the emergency code's suggested movement pattern in order to bring everyone to safety. The King made sure that he managed to confront Oliver during that time.  
  
It's also certain that the King interrogated Oliver about the peculiar tale that spun around the two of them, about their actions that have undoubtedly been captured by the security cameras installed everywhere, about their relationship that is simply that of two strangers who somehow managed to damage each other's life more than absolutely necessary. Judging from the King's personality, there's a very strong possibility that he presented Oliver an offer that he couldn't have refused under any circumstances. Additionally, since the King is hardly at a position to make unsupported accusations pulled out from his ass, there's a good chance that there's a great deal of so-called evidence to support the hypothesis of, let's say, Oliver poisoning him and leading him astray from the righteous path of heroic pilots.  
  
Now the only question left is—  
  
The unlocked door swings open with the slightest press of his palm, his path to enter the almost-vacant room halted by a chair pulled up near the door. There's a person seated on that lone chair, looking haggard and exhausted enough to belong in the cheap bed tucked on the corner of the small room.   
  
He walks over to where the room's occupant is seated, letting the door swing shut. Sore muscles and open wounds make his movements dull with pain, but he manages to move without much suffering. This level of pain is nothing.  
  
"Don't drip blood all over the room."  
  
He snorts derisively at that nitpicky command.  
  
If Oliver thinks that he cares about bloodstains on some rundown dormitory floor…  
  
Well, no matter.  
  
"I just figured that if the King has time for lowly idiots like you…" He starts removing his shirt again, the strangeness of situation of him stripping in front of another person for the second time today not lost on him. He looks at Oliver critically, surmising that there's a definite gap between their body types, but ultimately deciding that he dislikes the feeling of his shirt brushing against open wounds even more than clothes that don't fit him perfectly. "…while he doesn't even bother showing up to pilot-specific meetings that actually matter…"  
  
He didn't have enough free time to hack into the architectural layout of the headquarters, superimposed with the security camera network, but there's very little chance that whatever goes on inside this room will get recorded and broadcasted to someone else aside from the two of them. He isn't bothered by the thought of being trialed as a traitor to the country's cause; he's really more bothered by the fact that the cuts on his back sting unnecessarily.   
  
With his back turned, he throws the uniform haphazardly aside, secretly targeting (and successfully hitting) Oliver's face. He raids the closet that does not belong to him for a set of clothes that he can wear back to his room.   
  
"…He doesn't bother showing up because he just doesn't want to see his useless son in the mission briefings."  
  
The lack of lights inside the room makes his search for replacement clothing a tad problematic. He thinks about the flimsy, low-quality threads that hold Oliver's clothes together, rolls his eyes at the pathetic amount of concern that Grand Romania exhibits toward pilots that don't promise much. He carelessly throws the clothes around, silently baiting Oliver to react, to sputter, to tremble even at the sight of some stranger waltzing into his room, uninvited, unwelcome, without a care about his feelings and his privacy.   
  
There's nothing but a helpless sigh that radiates so much pathetic powerlessness.  
  
Instantaneously, as though a knee-jerk reaction to unpleasant weakness, he finds himself crossing the distance that separated them a few minutes prior, he finds his own hands reaching out to wrap snugly around a thin, vulnerable neck. He spins the two of them in a distorted crescent, effortlessly dragging Oliver and his feet over the floor, his grip unwavering. His fingers feel the pulse accelerating; his ears hear the pained breathing; his eyes watch that abominable expression of passive surrender cloud into something more unspeakably irritating.  
  
He isn't particularly invested in any of his little projects that whittle away his time locked in boredom, but he does remember the spark of satisfaction when he notices the marked improvement in Oliver's performance in the intelligence tests. He can't understand how someone that gifted when it came to learning things can be so dense, can be so useless, so uncaring about his own situation.  
  
"Why?" He hisses out, eager for an explanation, even a flimsy one, for a reason, even a stupid one, for an answer, even a useless one, just so this puzzling attitude can stop bothering him. Cruelly, vindictively, he tightens his fingers around the neck sweaty with exertion. He ignores the cold fingers that attempt to loosen his lock on the other's neck. He observes the green eyes so close to his own widen and then flutter slowly shut.  
  
"Why do you keep on letting people step all over you?" He releases Oliver's neck, only to let his hands seize the other by his shoulders, shaking him until he regains his senses and realize that there's no point in pretending to be a saint and accumulating the world's sins or something. "Why don't you mind getting defeated? I know you're capable of rejecting!"  
  
He knows Oliver is.  
  
Because that's the only answer left, the answer to the way Oliver looks drained and fatigued even more than usual, the answer to the only question that he has left regarding the future of this rotten country.  
  
And the mention of the word 'rejection' is immediately able to snap Oliver's eyes open, brings back the focus and concentration that he lost while his brain got deprived of oxygen. It's enough introduce a glimpse of seriousness so far-flung from the usual apathetic passivity that controls Oliver's motions.  
   
He then lets Oliver go, as he returns to his interrupted raiding of the closet that sorely lacks in variety.  
  
"I can't be like you."  
  
And that's a good thing.  
  
What's the point in gaining power, strength, total supremacy, if there's nothingness awaiting him at the finish line?  
  
"I accept things when doing otherwise complicates things."  
  
He then removes the bandages that were haphazardly stacked on top of his skin that's supposed to have been infused with chemical factors that's supposed to grant him exponential healing rates. The strips of white are soaked with sticky blood, decidedly crimson even if he doubts his body's constitution remains human still. The amount of open cuts that stay on his skin even after a couple of hours just proves how useless the temporary strength his so-called Bloody Beast mode gives him is. In fact, his healing seems to be even slower now; trust Grand Romania to just single-mindedly pursue offensive improvements instead of remembering that a powerful offense only becomes successful if there's a solid defense backing it up.  
  
Despite the fact that his wounds are dripping all over the room, there's no outburst of any stench or anything. Rather, there's no way his wounds can add anything else to the already overwhelming stench of decay and death trapped inside this room. He eyes the coffin-like box at the opposite end of the room, containing the answer to the only question he had left regarding Oliver's sanity and logic governing his actions.  
  
He doesn't understand it.  
  
But he does feel the almost oppressive desire radiating from Oliver—not a desire for him, no—but the desire for him to start answering some unvoiced inquiries.  
  
He puts on the smallest shirt he can find and feels it still a little loose near his shoulders.  
  
"It's an emergency attack—a sneak attack against the headquarters." He rolls his eyes at the dumbstruck expression on the brat's face—filled with bewilderment as though he's blind and unaware to the way Oliver is now acting. "I'm talking about the CODE 999 earlier, dumbass."  
  
His offer of information is akin to unlocking some floodgates.   
  
"From what country—who are the pilots?—no wait, what SPHEREs did they use?—no that's not it either, did you kill them?"  
  
He pauses, uncertain how to proceed.  
  
There's a possibility that he's reading this situation wrong. There's a possibility that the dead body captured inside that coffin-like container belongs to someone different from the one he had in mind. There's a possibility that Oliver is much smarter than he expected and this is all just an elaborate ruse to trap him to an inescapable situation.  
  
He then watches the way Oliver earnestly looks at him—filled with hatred for his existence, with admiration for the strength that he represents, with befuddlement with his own uncanny interest in the current turn of events—with absolutely nothing hidden in that green-colored gaze.  
  
There's a possibility, no matter how small, of everything else occurring.  
  
He just can't think of any microscopic probability that Oliver is heading any sort of diabolical plan against him.  
  
"…two units from the United Nations of Nobility." He frowns a little when he feels his own blood seeping through the thin fabric of the shirt he just pilfered from Oliver's closet. "I didn't bother to remember their SPHEREs or their names. They managed to escape though, with their tails wagging between their legs."  
  
The next time he crosses paths with his supervisor, he'll probably be taken over by some vengeful bloodlust, with the way he's building annoyance about the way he keeps on losing precious blood now, because of some vindictive punishment when the person his supervisor should have punished is right here.   
  
He could do a lot of things, while he's here.  
  
There are a lot of things he's been forgetting recently, but Oliver's quiet whisper reminds him of one important fact.  
  
"I hate you."  
  
Oliver's eyes are like molten metal.  
  
He feels the same way.  
  
"I really, truly hate you."  
  
Despite the corpse inside this room—a dead person he thinks he can identify, but doesn't care to double-check—the fact that they both hate each other remains true.  
  
There's been years in-between their strange relationship, but it's always been furious, bubbling hatred that continues gluing them together. No matter what happens in the future—Oliver getting caught with a dead skeleton in his closet, him dying in a suicide mission that will undoubtedly fail in bringing Grand Romania the glory they're seeking—it will always remain as hatred, the feelings between the two of them.  
  
He watches the way those weak shoulders shake and tremble.  
  
He gives in to the urge to hold those shoulders then, place pressure on them because it's almost painful, almost irritating, to watch a grown man like him tremble like a child.  
  
"The feeling is completely mutual," he reassures the brat in front of him, spins the words into the abridged gap between them, because he won't start thinking stupid things like Oliver suddenly feeling something else at this point, because he won't mistake this strange burst of individualistic insanity for an action fueled by the desire to remain close to him, because he won't expect Oliver to start acting like a useful person anytime soon, "because I hate useless, pathetic cowards like you."  
  
And it's the truth.  
  
"I hate you," Oliver repeats with a relieved smile, sighing out the statement in a soft shudder of lips, "I hate you."  
  
It's the truth.  
  
He relinquishes his grip on the shoulders that have finally stopped trembling. He doesn't take a step back though, doesn't attempt to widen the space between them even by a mere millimeter. He stays close enough to smell the desperation and the almost helpless logic error chaining Oliver's thoughts. He knows the other is masquerading around as not knowing anything about anything that can be linked to the corpse hidden in his room.  
  
It's not up to him to bring this topic up, not when he has a duty to report this scenario to Grand Romania's bureaucrats.  
  
The country is unstable enough: this news will just unnecessarily shove everybody off the cliff opening up to an abyss of unrecoverable defeat.   
  
He hates Oliver too.  
  
He resolves not to remember anything from this room though—not the uncanny tiredness on Oliver's body, not the desecrated, mutilated corpse with a face that heavily resembles the King's, not the vials of blood that are lined up like neat little shop displays in front of the desk—even if he hates Oliver, truly.  
  
There's a possibility that this is all just a misunderstanding on his part.  
  
It's just that he dislikes the hassle that will definitely accompany him if he reports and investigates the possibility that Oliver killed the King.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
Everything hits him full-force the moment he steps out of the briefing room, holding a hardbound file that can only be detailed reports and instructions for his upcoming mission. Detailed to the exact minute, there's a timeline that details each and every action he needs to take until his first and last confrontation against Central Tower's best pilot. Almost like a looming countdown, he can see his future stretching out futilely to a very abrupt horizon, the edges of his future burnt ashen.  
  
The entire world is dwindling down to a destructive doomsday—the world will not end the moment he loses (against Rei, his life, his everything) then the world will instead continue to a crescendo of cathartic collapse.  
  
Crew Charroue dying isn't something that he readily believed the moment he received the news. While not as fearsomely, decisively, destructive as Rei, Crew Charroue is definitely one of Central Tower's formidable pillars—his death brings a near orgasmic glee to the country's bureaucrats, almost like a prophetic sign that Central Tower is crippled now, almost like a start signal to startle everyone into a frenzied bid for the position of the ruler of the entire world.  
  
There are a lot of changes that show just how much the world is falling. His upcoming dethronement from the top tier of Grand Romania is merely a faint ripple in the grand scheme of things. Despite harboring a healthy, straightforward acceptance of how easy will he fade away from the face of the world's reality, he still gets flabbergasted when he completely realizes that the papers in his hand is just like a meek, passive acceptance of a fate that he can't even hope to fight. He's displaying that passiveness that he loathes so much when he spies that same behavior being exhibited by Oliver.  
  
It's enough to make him both overcome with a strange sort of empty dread and with a more understandable volcanic fury at the thought of being infected by the brat's weakness.  
  
He hates Oliver.  
  
"I hate him," he reaffirms aloud, talking to the heavy recycled air in front of him, uncaring whether there are people around who manage to catch a glimpse of him talking to himself, deciding that repeating that statement over and over again loses its appeal quite quickly.  
  
…Despite having no changes whatsoever to his outlook in life and to his feelings for Oliver, he does find himself taking steps that shouldn't seem familiar towards a place that shouldn't feel welcoming. Nothing good can come out from another confrontation between him and Oliver: he'll only feel the take-over of his Bloody Beast disease each time the other acts like an annoying wimp, he'll only end up lashing out and injuring the other whether or not the brat actually deserved it.   
  
He takes a left turn and takes the elevators down to the trainees' floor.  
  
He leans against the cool wall of the spacious elevator, eyes trained on the steady decrease of the numbers on the display.   
  
He takes the moment to reflect on his sudden decision to spare the life of his supervisor earlier, in contrast to his earlier resolve to retaliate and return the favor ten-fold. He rejects the idea that it's because he felt a smidgen of pity towards his supervisor who doesn't know anything about the King who's supposedly keeping to himself and refusing to leave his room. That degree of kindness oh-so-obviously doesn't fit in his repertoire of emotion range, but there's no other logical explanation behind his actions.  
  
…Though to claim that he possesses the truth behind the King's disinclination to leave the confines of his personal quarters is a bit too forward, quite presumptuous really.   
  
He raises his right hand and gingerly places it atop his forehead, feeling for his body temperature.  
  
Cold.  
  
He's cold, blood cooled by the circulating conditioned air, body temperature heavily affected by his surroundings. Unlike ordinary humans that manage to somehow keep certain internal warmth even when placed in a drastically different environment.  
  
It's been quite some time since he last pondered about the fate of his brother, Frederick. Their relationship has always been strained, only exacerbated by the fact that not only do their personalities clash wildly, but also since their capabilities and talents are separated by a wall that no amount of hard work can overcome.  
  
He smiles, a curve of lips that can be construed as bitter, even.   
  
The boundary of ordinary human beings and geniuses…   
  
What a bunch of bullshit.   
  
He, who is supposedly standing supreme above everyone else, is the one with a death sentence strangling him slowly. He doesn't feel a drop of gratefulness for the way he's been acknowledged by the world as one of the truly special beings. There's just no point, no merit, no benefit gained in being the best.  
  
On times like this, alone and undisturbed in a cramped space with only his thoughts for company, he actually faintly wishes that he can be as weak and worthless as Oliver, so that he wouldn't have to deal with all those hassle. Weak people have it easy, he thinks, because nobody expects anything from them. Their weakness acts as the best possible cover for their aspirations, and since nothing is expected from them, anything else that happens afterwards can only be regarded as surprises, as unexpected realizations, as miracles.  
  
…But only at times like those, and not even then.  
  
Because right now, the moment he lifts his right hand away from his forehead, away from his eyes, all he can see is the ding of the elevator displays about him reaching his destination, all he can feel is the ding of a pendulum falling into an ominous stop, all he can hear is the ding of death dripping from deep down.  
  
…Why is he here?  
  
He's here for something, isn't he?  
  
This is the floor for trainees. He's a first-rank pilot. Therefore he isn't a trainee.  
  
Therefore he shouldn't be here.  
  
He takes a step closer to the doors that are wide open, closer to the elevator controls, closer to closing the doors again so he can return to the top floors.  
  
He's here for something.  
  
He takes a step, one-two-three, out of the elevators.  
  
Ding.  
  
He can see numerous paths extending out from in front of him.   
  
Where should he go?  
  
His grip subconsciously tightens around the folders that articulate his upcoming death in so many words and figures.  
  
He allows his body to take him to his destination, allows his legs to take the necessary action so he can be done with his business on this floor that doesn't deserve his presence, allows his mind to wander around as he registers and processes the sights and hallways that expose themselves to his eyes. Everything is hazy and ashen gray, as though there's a smoky mist filtering his vision, but everything is hyper-clear and magnified in his mind, like he's peering through a microscope that even details the tiniest specks of dust and dirt on the things around him.  
  
Information overload is the best term to describe what he's feeling at the moment, but that changes soon enough.  
  
He finally stumbles upon his destination, or so his instincts claim.  
  
—A few meters away from the residential quarters of a person who has always remained weak and worthless and unremarkable except for bursts of brilliance that takes his breath away and replaces it with a mixture of curious madness and maddening curiosity.  
  
He sees Oliver: passive and devoid of strong emotions that can grant him the power to establish a revolutionary era; drained and fatigued not only by the day's lessons but also by the day's news and also by the day's contradictions.  
  
He should also see what's-her-name: trainee uniform two sizes too small in order to emphasize her laughable breast size; lips and cheeks too scarlet-pink in order to grant her a natural, innocently seductive look; eyes downcast and voice too meek in order to appear hesitant and desirable.   
  
He should see her, but all he can at this point is red.  
  
He rubs his eyes with his right hand, his mission folders still in his left hand's clutch, but the crimson paint doesn't fade even after vigorously wiping his eyes.  
  
He distantly hears, like a far-away echo, a simple, straight-forward proposition.  
  
He still sees her dyed in red redder than her fake lipstick and fake blush.  
  
He—  
  
"Of course it's because of your special promotion," he parrots the echo that he heard just a few seconds ago, "there's just no way chicks will dig you otherwise."  
  
He sees her red growing darker, rustier, dirtier, almost black now, almost decayed, almost dead.  
  
Ding.  
  
He only meant to show an obscene hand gesture that can mean 'go fuck off and die'.  
  
He blinks at his right hand and at the sword that's just there and at the other end of the sharp sword and at the heart that he's already captured and pierced for himself.  
  
He frowns.  
  
He isn't interested in her heart.  
  
He doesn't even know her.  
  
He doesn't even have the slightest interest in knowing anything about her aside from her awful taste in men.  
  
He pulls out the sword with little difficulty, ignores the squish and the groan and the splatter that follows his actions.  
  
He hears noise—some words, maybe, sounds that fail to tell him anything important—and it hurts his ears even more than it hurts his skull. It probably has something to do with the quality of the other's voice—with a passive sigh that grates jarringly against his eardrums—and he doesn't want to hear that noise ever again. He hates it. He doesn't even know—doesn't even want to bother—what the other is yammering about.   
  
He hates it.  
  
"I'm not in a good mood," and he truthfully can't ever remember a time that granted him a less-than-foul disposition, "so I suggest that you shut the fuck up."  
  
A peculiar smell of something disgusting reaches his nose, but that's probably just the garbage near his feet. There's no reason, no logical explanation, behind the almost volcanic loathing he feels towards the trash he just disposed of. Jealousy doesn't fit—not only does he not love Oliver, but he also knows without a shadow of doubt that Oliver will not choose to accept that offer to become a boyfriend. He doesn't have any reason whatsoever to be jealous, which means that he isn't jealous, which means that he still does not have an explanation for his behavior aside from the possibility that he's losing his mind and therefore is exempted from following the rules and regulations that governed sane interactions.  
  
He thinks of making his way nearer to Oliver, not minding the body crumpled beneath his feet, but then he peers at the other's face, recognizes an odd sort of expression there.  
  
Throughout all the years he has known Oliver, this is possibly the first time he has seen such blatant fear bleed over the other's expression. Terribly unrelated to possible showcases of bravery and courage, Oliver simply is too accepting of the pain inflicted to his body to even start bothering to manifest fright in his appearance.  
  
But right now, Oliver looks afraid.  
  
He traces Oliver's gaze and connects it to the file folders in his left hand.  
  
He's here for this, isn't he?  
  
"In two months, in November," he offers the summary of information transcribed as blocks of text upon glossy white paper, "they're sending me against Central Tower's 01."  
  
His reason for subjecting himself to a degrading environment is because of this folder thick with information that won't really mean much once he's already inside the cockpit and all he has with him are his thoughts and his power—it's this.  
  
Oliver's expression is pinched, like he's slowly being strangled by the words coming out from his mouth.  
  
It's mildly interesting: because he isn't the type to be horribly conceited to the point that he'll assume that every single thing works in accordance to his actions, he wants to know, to observe, to watch how Oliver will react to this news. The truth behind the body stored inside Oliver's residential quarters is something that manages to stay secret until now—there's no bleep of information regarding any missing corpses or any suspicious decaying smells.   
  
He's interested, not concerned at the slightest though, about the real identity of that corpse.  
  
He thinks he knows who that person is.  
  
He isn't the type to be satisfied by things that don't possess an ounce of hard, irrefutable evidence.  
  
He hates Oliver.  
  
Oliver hates him.  
  
Their feelings are mutual.  
  
Therefore—  
  
"You should be excited for the fight, no?" He will die in two months' time, while participating in a campaign that doesn't have any chance of ending successfully. "…after all, even this country's ambitious engineers only project a 9% chance of survival for me."  
  
It's a lie.  
  
They don't outright tell him the projected percent for his survival, though they did offer him a tidbit about a 70% chance of success. Succeeding and surviving his next mission are entirely different concepts: he will succeed as long as he manages to activate the series of bombs they have implanted near the area so that they could incapacitate Central Tower's broad underground security network. Since activating the bombs require a huge spark, sacrificing his life while inside AETHER will barely suffice.  
  
He will not survive his next mission.  
  
He looks at the body crumpled beside his feet and thinks that he'll end up like that fairly soon.  
  
He throws the mission folders to Oliver's chest, using uncontrolled force to the point that catching the bunch of paperwork is enough to make the other take two steps back.  
  
He doesn't have any life-altering reason for this visit, really.  
  
He just wants to find out, on the last few moments of his life, whether or not someone is capable of entertaining him.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
Castles of Nevermore has never been a paragon of cordiality, but the subzero temperatures of the hallways, the dim lighting illuminating the pathways, the stale circulating air reek too much of an abandoned warehouse. Definitely a far cry from its imposing image of powerful nobility, the insides of the Castles of Nevermore are filled with stocks of artillery, with the only vacant rooms transformed to host the testing laboratories meant just for him and the study of the transformation his body is suffering from now that his entire head is filled with silver strands and his eyes appear like he's constantly hemorrhaging from his retinas.  
  
The Octobers of yesteryears have never been as cold as now, but he supposes that environmental temperature ceases to hold any meaning since he's already feeling nothing but a hazy recognition of his own limbs, with just one injection straight to his bloodstream. His arms look like they've been bitten by countless insects, with the amount of open wounds that accompany each experimental drug that enters his system.  
  
Somewhere, there's a countdown to the days left until his scheduled launch against Rei, but he can't see anything right now and to be honest, he doesn't particularly care.  
  
He isn't the slightest bit worried about this temporary loss of eyesight; he's rather used to this feeling of opaque crimson dropping like a heavy curtain in front of his eyelids. He resolves to remember asking for a picture—it doesn't have to be high-quality, a snapshot from the security camera feeds will be fine—of his appearance right now: with eyes bleeding heavily from inside his sockets, his body protesting against the accelerated aging it's undergoing, his organs squishing out their contents as decay creeps alongside his vessels.  
  
Surely, he's quite a sight right now, his terrifying image amplified by the outburst of blood from places where humans shouldn't be bleeding profusely from.   
  
While the color changes are rather permanent, the loss of eyesight isn't, so he blinks slowly to get used to light entering his vision again. He sees wide computer screens filled with rows of data that don't interest him even slightly; he allows his gaze to travel to the other corners of the banquet hall transformed to a testing area, successfully spotting the replacement project supervisor the bureaucrats are using while The King continues to refuse leaving his private quarters.   
  
Black is there, a mask of indifference calmly tacked atop his face that's most probably seething inside, arms crossed as he critically observes the ongoing preparations for the day Grand Romania seizes the top spot in the world.  
  
His supervisor is there amongst the sea of researchers and engineers who look at him with a healthy mixture of dread and anticipation.   
  
This is just the first quarter of the first day of the first month of preparations and he's already beyond exhausted with dealing with all of them.  
  
He mulls over the idea of letting his instincts, his disease, take over his entire system now. It will be easy: taking out all of these nerds that don't have the strength to withstand half the things that they do to test his physical limitations. True, he'll end up cornered like a sitting duck by the country's military forces by the time they realize that an unforgivable carnage just happened upon the lives of the top brass. But he's starting to think that there's no outcome worthy of this much inconvenience, especially since there's no way his body could be molded, upgraded, into something beyond the reach of humanity.   
  
He's going to lose.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
…What is he again?  
  
"…Administering drug set 686-10-25 Batch 0B5a."  
  
Words echo uncomfortably at the base of his skull. His ears can smell the amount of poison mixed with the liquids encased in a steel-needled syringe. His eyes can feel the pin-pricks of pain on his pale skin.  
  
What is he, exactly?  
  
Dimly, he recalls that the doctors that come and visit him all address him with a familiar name.  
  
Right now, he just can't remember that name.  
  
It doesn't matter, does it?  
  
He's here, confined by tubes and cables and human avarice, but that's about to change soon.  
  
He can taste change permeating through every microscopic pore of this building's walls.  
  
He knows he's about to participate in an important mission.  
  
At this moment, it's just that he can't exactly remember anything about that supposed mission.  
  
If he can't remember, then it's not important.  
  
If it's important, he'll surely remember.  
  
…Right?  
  
"Right," he echoes with a twist of his lips, smelling fear in the air, seeing rough detachment akin to treatment of rogue beasts.  
  
***  
  
Drugged beyond the normal limits of human beings, even after his status as a 'super-soldier' is considered, he barely registers the feelings of cables winding up his legs and connecting to his pilot suit in order to transmit his movement, his underlying nerve pulses, his remaining scraps of humanity, to the SPHERE born out of a certain country's overpowering greed. He's reluctant to label this as part of the country's last vestiges of pity for his upcoming demise; at this point, his entire body is too fucked-up to even feel the remotest suggestion of pain upon his system.  
  
It's the ideal way to die, he supposes, since he won't have to worry about being overcome with so much pain he'd wish he could shoot himself just to end things.  
  
Cheating death is impossible with the current available technology but it's now apparently possible to imitate a state of complete bliss anyway.  
  
It's nothing short of miraculous: the way he successfully managed to execute the launch sequence with minimal fumbling and with zero faults. He grins dully at the notification for the medical clearance blinking out of the screens as soon as it popped up; he supposes that the command center realized that there's no point in doing a pointless check-up on a pilot that's harboring deciliters of drugs in his circulation.   
  
It almost feels surreal, like he's detached from the things happening to his body, as if he's merely observing the way things work. This is possibly the hundredth time he's done this launching clearance, but it almost feels new to him, like he's a newbie pilot who's just starting to learn the ropes of what he's doing, as if there's something there that can be mistaken as fascination. The heavy dosage of the so-called 'limit removers' is most likely the culprit behind his altered perception of his surroundings; there's just no way he, of all people, feels all of these things on a normal day.  
  
One of the offshoot mini-screens on his main display showcases a video clip that's being shown right now on all Grand Romania television sets and video feeds. The entire country is forced to witness a series of shows that have nothing but dirty lies in them.   
  
Case in point: the current video clip is about a so-called interview with him prior to this launching sequence, with the interviewer asking all sorts of stupid questions that are all about his upcoming strategy, things that have no business getting answered prior to a fight because that can compromise his mission (even worse than its current situation). That pre-launching interview never happened, because it's definitely not within his policy to entertain this type of ridiculous propaganda. He doesn't even want to think about how the hell his higher-ups found the time to fake that video when everything is happening at an accelerated timeline.  
  
He pinches the skin in-between his eyes in an effort to alleviate the exasperated headache that's starting to form. He resolves to discontinue his train of thought since it's now skittering by the topic that he personally considers to be the absolute worst: politics. He just has a couple of hours left and he refuses to taint his last moments with traces of annoyances.  
  
Keeping his eyes open doesn't prevent the sight of his pale skin turning crimson red from entering his vision, even though absolutely nothing has changed in the lighting. Everything is now tinted red, like donning on permanent correction glasses dipped in rich wine. The scarlet curtain falls more in front of his eyes now, to the point that he's almost more surprised to find his vision back to normal.  
  
The two months of preparation spent inside testing chambers and glass cylinders acclimatized him to the special feature of his red gaze, even if he refused to actually voice out the fact that he has noticed a drastic improvement in his eyesight while everything is colored red.  
  
…Not that it can be honestly called an 'improvement'.  
  
Whenever blood floods his vision, his eyes almost act like a probing camera that zooms in unnecessarily on the tiniest details, mostly minute mistakes in the scenery, or faint faults that line the object in front of him. As expected of an upgrade born from a disease that trades one's life and sanity for a boost of strength, it's a transformation that brings him farther away from humanity and drags him deeper down into entertaining his destructive tendencies.  
  
Right now, he can see the wires running at the control panel just slightly above his head, he can see the pixels, the tubes, comprising the information displays in front of him, can see the uneven sizes of the pores of his palm. Everything around him is filled to the brim with mistakes and he's starting to feel a gnawing itch on his gut to correct them.  
  
He tries to think of a classical masterpiece, a calming melody, a comforting memory—but he grasps at the edges of control then, when the beastly urge to run berserk is beginning to resurface. He needs to save that rampaging for later, because in front of the entire world's spectating eyes, he refuses to show any thread of weakness even if he's certain of the match's conclusion. He plans to fight with every intention to kill and destroy, no matter how unsuccessful he ends up being.  
  
"Ash Vlastvier," he relays to the speaker, as soon as he sees all-green on the launching clearance display, pressing the pads of fingers against the proper controls, reciting his name and the standard mission launch phrase for the first and last time, "…launching!"  
  
***  
  
Breaching the boundary between the two countries doesn't disappoint in being the perfect lure to bait Rei into flying out farther away from the headquarters. While Rei is strong enough to last an entire fight without any reinforcements or supplementaries from his headquarters, every little help counts in his case, since his first goal is to damage SERAPH thoroughly in order to showcase to the whole world that the pilot they revere the most doesn't deserve the respect and fear they regard him with. The mission folder for today—now left behind as burnt ashes on some abandoned garbage bin—words his mission goals a little differently, a little more dishonestly, but that's the general gist of things.   
  
Of course, shaming Rei in front of the world's eyes is just the tip of the iceberg, since the main plan is to actually activate a self-destruct system installed inside his AETHER's limbs, which in turn will release a cacophony of wavelengths that will rattle and resonate with the underground infrastructure that houses Central Tower's most populated cities. The engineers are hoping to achieve a destructive domino effect that will affect nearby underground cities as well in order to relay the damage back to the main headquarters' foundations; the bureaucrats are wishing to attain the fear and respect of everyone that will witness the clash between the top two pilots.  
  
He struggles to find a more stable footing, since the surrounding landscape is a mixture of arid desert and frequent molten magma mountains. The extremely hot temperature isn't a hindrance, since AETHER is built to house much hotter core temperatures, though the uneven slopes and viscous footholds aren't very helpful to his combat skills. He supposes that he'll have to rely on more traditional weapons then, because there's no point in showing off his dozens of tentacle limbs when the whole world has already witnessed that horrifying sight.  
  
Launching missiles doesn't require much skill, but launching them in perfect timing and order by predicting the next moves of his opponent so that not all missiles will land (and miss) on one spot: that's what he's doing right now. He doesn't feel too disappointed that Rei manages to avoid all of the missiles by practically dancing on top of the uneven landscape, performing a pirouette that's nothing short of divine and impossible for human standards. He almost cringes as he imagines the amount of coiled tension that move dumps unto the pilot's body.  
  
…Well, he's not that averse to pain, but now that he doesn't feel any sort of ache because of the drugs…  
  
He grins.  
  
He performs a series of cartwheels that nobody in their right mind would attempt, barely feeling the whine and stretch and tear of his skin as the cables linked to them understands and unfairly executes his commands. Everything remains coated in red, even as his vision swims for a short moment. His grin grows wider and more deranged as he successfully vaporizes the remaining distance separating their SPHEREs; he lands on his feet just a few meters short of actually colliding against SERAPH and he doesn't waste a split-second in delivering a straight punch that SERAPH manages to redirect to the edge of its outstretched wing.  
  
Even with his death ascertained—or maybe because of that—he feels life practically pulsing through his veins right now. He might have been waiting for this moment his entire life: for someone much stronger than him to appear and thoroughly wipe the floor with him. He wants to yell at his instructors from Herzog Kingdom, at his bosses at Grand Romania, shout at them that he isn't the genius that they've been celebrating, make them see that there are plenty of stronger monsters in this world.   
  
He's just an ordinary person, at the end of the day.  
  
Without giving up even though he's dimly aware that his left arm is already broken at an unnatural angle, he aims another punch towards SERAPH, intent on damaging the cockpit and exposing Rei to the toxic fumes of the earth's atmosphere. The cockpit's clear reinforced glass doesn't hide the cocky grin playing on Rei's face, an expression that only deepens in amusement as he fails to inflict heavier damage to his opponent.  
  
He doesn't plan on yielding anytime soon, even if he's beginning to feel the tell-tale burn on his lungs, like he's stayed underwater without breathing for too long, like he's made a thousand laps around the practice hall without pausing, like he's undergone lengthy simulation exercises for one week without sleeping.  
  
SERAPH retaliates immediately afterwards, easily landing a kick to the joints serving as AETHER's right knee, further shaking the already-wobbly balance that he has.   
  
He doesn't want to give up so easily, not because there are millions of people who can see him stripped to normality in front of such a terrifying strength, but because he still possesses his own, human, pride.  
  
With a roar that bubbles from his diaphragm, he stretches out his left leg as he tilts sideways, hooking the pointed tip of his foot and catching SERAPH by its knees. There's no real strategic value in toppling the two of them together to the ground, but he refuses to lose. He braces for the thundering impact and readily outstretches his right arm to distribute the impact throughout his robot's mainframe. He watches SERAPH activate the defensive portion of its wings—the moment that he's waiting for.   
  
…Even with a broken arm, he can still achieve an accurate shot, especially at this short a distance.   
  
His left arm fumbles with the controls to quickly pull out a cannon from the inside compartments of his AETHER's limbs, not wanting to miss the chance to shoot during the split-second faltering in the energy fields surrounding SERAPH, during that one brief moment that SERAPH's defense is at its weakest. His timing is perfect, even if he only shallowly perused the huge stack of reports about SERAPH's abilities; it's a shame that the firepower behind the cannon in his hand isn't enough to considerably lower his opposing SPHERE's health.  
  
Rei's grin widens, if that's even possible, teeth displayed in a feral manner.  
  
He's the one who's supposed to be beastly right now, but witnessing Rei's expressions is enough to convince him that there are worse monsters in this world.  
  
There's a spark of satisfaction as he notices a chip in SERAPH's perfect, angelic armor. It's not much, especially if he compares his status to his enemy's, but he's not completely helpless in this fight. That thought strengthens his resolve to continue fighting even harder, unleashing a wave of wild attacks that follow no particular martial arts form or technique. Being unpredictable is his favorite tactic, aside from simply overwhelming his opponents with sheer power. He doesn't mind the notification alerts on his screens; he simply punches and kicks the nearest surface within reach.   
  
His communication link is eerily silent, a huge departure from its usual status of mass chaos. Figures that nobody wants to stay on the line and give instructions to someone who'll get killed soon. But, well, no matter. It's actually better to have silence as his company, since that will grant him an easier time concentrating on his mission and a more peaceful atmosphere as he tries to not lose his willpower to keep on going.  
  
He doesn't see it coming—not just because his vision blurs for a moment—the way SERAPH actually fully outstretches its wings to unleash all of its pointed tips that are supplied with high-power lasers. One decisive hit from all of those wings' tips will immediately vaporize a chunk of AETHER, rendering him unable to move any further. He has to avoid that attack at all cost, even if he has to break two more limbs of his.   
  
And then, just as quickly as a shallow sigh, the drive to persevere in this fight leaves him.  
  
He feels the inevitable conclusion soak chillingly into his bones.   
  
…This is the end.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
…He isn't dead.  
  
…He isn't dead?  
  
…He isn't dead!  
  
He brings his bloodstained hands up to his face, as though to ascertain his continued presence. The cables connecting his limbs to AETHER's motion system have already snapped and twisted in their refusal to continue fighting a losing battle; AETHER remains still as a chunk of useless scraps of metal, ceasing to emulate its pilot's movements the moment the machine got disconnected from its user's body.  
  
The self-destruct system is apparently encountering some errors in its execution, prolonging this moment of tiptoeing the line between life and death. He isn't that interested in hastening his disappearance from this world, though he is a little miffed that Grand Romania can't even perfect its machineries when this is supposed to be the crowning moment of their glory.   
  
His screens have long stopped functioning and his communication links have never started connecting, so he's a little lost with how to explain the unusual stillness of his surroundings, like a thick cloak has been placed over the entire area. Briefly, he considers opening a one-way line towards the command center, if only to be a dutiful little pilot who reports insignificant details like the self-destruction sequence getting jammed and refusing to follow through.  
  
This is a rather unfortunate moment to suddenly regain his senses though. He's rather hopeful that his death will reach him while his mind is too muddled with the Bloody Beast disease's insane cycles. He's more satisfied with the idea that he'll die without knowing what exact thoughts were running through his mind.  
  
Surprisingly, since he knows his radar systems are greatly impaired at this point, he becomes aware of a sound too high up the normal hearing range, of a sound that feels like a wailing shriek combined with a rumbling moan. Seconds later, the entire operating system of AETHER stutters to a complete stop, the machines' whirrs and clicks disappearing into a whisper-soft stillness that's just incompatible with the known status of a broken robot. The countdown for the self-destruction sequence lapses into silence, almost like the entire world has been hushed forcibly by a nagging god.  
  
A couple of moments pass in the virtual vacuum, time that goes by agonizingly slow for him who's just simply waiting for everything to end. There's a heavy jolt from above and that's when he hears the telltale whine of metal scraping against each other, a sign that AETHER's armor is being stripped away completely. Instead of being roughly flung aside or being harshly grabbed out of machine's core, his main cockpit area is instead hoisted up carefully, slowly, almost like he's being rescued from the definite ending that's already been handed down to him.  
  
He coughs then, his lungs letting out squishy noises as his guts bubble over and his diaphragm suffers from the sudden change in atmospheric pressure. He feels his heartbeat rise in time to the self-preserving instinctive panicking. He hears the sounds of cables winding around the glass-metal combination of the main cockpit's surroundings, confirming his suspicion that somebody went ahead and rescued him.   
  
There's a spark of admiration there for his unknown rescuer, because it's surely not an easy feat to sneak around two top pilots and suddenly burst into the middle of a fight involving SERAPH. He wonders who possesses the capability, the willpower, the desire to save him.   
  
And as he feels the atmospheric pressure change once more as his seating orientation shifts, like he's being laid down on a steel bed, a communication link opens manually, overriding the unnatural shutdown of his SPHERE's operating system.  
  
And the incoming voice belongs to someone he isn't expecting at all.  
  
"Ash? Ash? Are you okay? Hey, answer me! Are you still alive? Ash!"  
  
***  
  
…  
…  
…  
…  
…  
  
***  
  
Laughably, the entire world continues to march onwards even as inexplicable events tore through all possibilities and explanations. It's almost enough to make him doubt his own consciousness and memory, because everything around him is pointing to a past where he dueled admirably against Central Tower's best pilot, where he ended up having to conclude the battle with an honorable stalemate, where he ended up safely travelling back to the headquarters. None of those situations occurred, since the duel against Rei was an overwhelming, one-sided loss on his part, since the battle was forcefully settled with an uninvited, mysterious smokescreen, since his return to the headquarters was something that he wasn't even entirely aware of.  
  
Alarmingly, pilot recruitment proceeds at a feverish pace, almost as if Grand Romania has decided to conveniently ignore their resounding defeat at the hands of SERAPH, blindly setting their sights on a much grander stage of challenging the whole world to war. Trainees fill the hallways of the lower floors, gazes misted by the promise of eternal glory attached to their name as future pilots for the future reigning empire.   
  
Engineers have also started pouring an immense amount of effort into building a second tower, preparing for the predicted outcome of overcrowding in the current headquarters' space for more trainees and more manufacturing floors.  
  
Despite his demeaning defeat, everybody looks up to him even more now, if that's even possible.  
  
It's incredibly irritating and there's only one person he can blame for this annoying turn of events.  
  
It takes him two weeks to free himself from the researchers' grabby hands filled with charts and measuring tools; it takes him another week to navigate down to the floor where the person he's looking for is currently located. Somehow like a glimpse of what utter nonexistence tastes like, his eyesight leaves him for hours before returning without warning, jolting him out of the eerie darkness that he's starting to feel comfortable with. Nobody notices the lapses of his senses, since he doesn't trip over his feet or crash into walls; it grants him even more frustration with the way Grand Romania is an utter failure when it comes to paying attention to details that can elevate them to a higher standard.  
  
Becoming blind is a condition that he has learned to embrace quite easily within the first couple of days: not seeing anything at all isn't that much of a hassle compared to his current eyesight anyway, since the times that the deep black clears only give way to a curtain of crimson color to erupt beneath his eyelids, tainting every single corner with blood. It causes him enough hassle though, with the way that reaching the lower floors from his private quarters is already a daunting challenge, made even harder by the fact that it's not like he can ask someone to join him on his little trip to visit somebody extremely beneath his status.  
  
Everything is suddenly too vague and too clear in his mind, a jumble of contradictions further descending into a maze whose only solution only he can discern. December is a mark of everything tumbling down to an end, with the winter winds wrestling with the walls and windows of this tower built upon humanity's combined desire for something out of their grasp. November did not manage to end his life nor did it send Grand Romania's plan collapsing down on its own blind ambitions. This month is the conclusion of this year wrought with incongruities that make his head hurt even more than it already does.  
  
Similar to the way he doesn't possess concrete proof that Oliver was the one behind the King's demise and continued charade of existence, he also doesn't have any solid evidence to back up his current working theory of Oliver being the one behind his daring rescue. If anything, there's a million and one support to the opposite sides of the two ideas, culminating with the truth that Oliver is a weak, spineless coward who doesn't own any semblance of power and control.   
  
…More than anyone else though, he is familiar with the way the world works. Illogicalities are what make the world infallible in its constant spinning on its own axis, slowly but surely decreasing its tempo until the day it stops rotating entirely.   
  
And more than anything, there's nobody else who he can think of, nobody who is stupid enough to do those things.  
  
His thoughts simmer down to a suspicious lull when he arrives in front of a training room that should be closed to anyone else.  
  
"—I'll give you superiority."  
  
Because there's no other way but to go doggedly forward from this point on. Because there's surely nothing else Oliver can do to continue keeping up the charade of the King's continued existence. Because this is the only way he knows how to return a debt he didn't even ask for in the first place.  
  
"…What are you talking about?"  
  
Oliver is rather intelligent—that much he can freely admit without breaking into uncontrollable hives. But the brat determinedly pursues the art of playing dense and stupid, dumbing himself down to the point that his refusal to acknowledge his own strength is almost a sharp insult to his own intellect. Oliver is also rather contradictory—with the way he looks complacently defensive yet terribly relieved with his uninvited entrance.  
  
The sight of the brat's stiff-shouldered stance is enough of a confirmation to seal his own theories.  
  
It's really Oliver who was behind that daring—unwanted—rescue.  
  
As illogical that may be.  
  
"As payment," he replies sarcastically to the unvoiced question that Oliver should be asking instead, "for your daring rescue."  
  
Instead of continuing futilely with feigning innocence, Oliver instantly jumps ahead. "I just didn't want you to—"  
  
Expectedly though, Oliver loses heart and confidence in himself quite quickly, cutting his explanations short. That's inconsequential in the grand order of things, since he's personally not interested in hearing half-baked explanations made with fumbling words and inconsistent excuses.  
  
"Shove it."   
  
He enters a code at the security device attached near the doorway. This should make sure that nobody witnesses this meeting, something that he should have done for all of his encounters with Oliver if he cared a little more about the King's life. As the security device's lights switch to flashing red, black walls descend from the ceilings to add a layer of thick cover from any prying eyes and recording devices outside. He lazily watches Oliver panic at getting so easily and so helplessly trapped in an enclosed space with his number one tormentor.  
  
"I have no interest in your reasoning."  
  
Inconsistent with his usual characteristic passivity when it comes to trading insults and exchanging words, Oliver actually replies with a solemn "…I know."  
  
"—you know?" He isn't quite sure if he should be overjoyed that Oliver is, finally, starting to stand up for himself even if it's against him, or if he should just be plain irritated at the other's grave voice. Everything is starting to become noisy at the back of his skull, the near-static noise climbing up and settling on top of his head, beneath his eyes, turning his gaze redder than ever. "You, of all the idiotic people, know?!"  
  
He's starting to lose his grip over his control and it's making him madder and it's making him lose control even more.   
  
It's an unpleasant feeling.  
  
"That's right," the brat continues to say irresponsible things that fuel his anger and his desire to strangle the fuck out of that idiot, "I know you don't care for my reasons. But I want you to know that I only did that because—"  
  
…Because what?  
  
He's almost frightened by the pause that follows afterward, because that sentence can be finished by a million and one phrases and none of them can make his boiling anger go away.   
  
He hates Oliver.  
  
Oliver hates him.  
  
It's a mutual cycle of hate—he's not too sure if he can allow that balance being destroyed because of one stupid action of an exceedingly stupid moron.  
  
"Because this world will collapse if you disappear."  
  
…Huh?!  
  
What is that idiot saying—?  
  
"That's why I saved you from SERAPH."  
  
Those words were uttered with such heavy conviction, incredibly alien from Oliver's usual disposition. Is it really possible—for somebody to change that much, to get affected that much, to be influenced that much because of him? Is it really possible for a person like him to attain true superiority that won't get damaged by any outside event? Is it really possible for him to continue existing in this cycle?  
  
"You're using such heroic words, aren't you?" He doesn't have any evidence to back up his hypothesis of Oliver being the one behind singlehandedly killing the King, but there's no other way to explain the path that the world is taking now. Oliver's selfish, ridiculous, actions have successfully steered Grand Romania's future into a path that only opens to one direction. It's both annoying and thrilling at once. "Aren't you being too conceited, trainee?"  
  
But he needs insurance that he'll be able to continue this hate, as well as the assurance that Oliver will not chicken out of the choice that he has already spun into motion.  
  
"I was merely rejecting an outcome that I disliked." Oliver's words are twisting and tangling together in a rush of defensiveness, but the conviction in a decision forged from unsure reasons is there. "That's all there is to it."  
  
Oliver still hates him.  
  
"You hate me." He confirms the feeling, the mutuality, with slow, deliberate words. "But you want my superiority, my standing—everything that I have."  
  
Only a couple more weeks await him, a shortened lifespan sealed by the Bloody Beast disease. He doesn't mind letting the weakling in front of him inherit everything from him, doesn't mind playing around for a little longer, doesn't mind seeing the world burn.   
  
"I don't—"  
  
And it doesn't even matter, at this point, what Oliver really wants.  
  
"I'll give you power," he promises with sharp words punctuated by cool breaths, his warmth intermingling with the other's as he presses forward and traps Oliver's puny body against the darkened windows, "and then—"  
  
***  
  
Grand Romania calls it a revolution: an upheaval of the current world's policies and restarting everything from the very beginning in order to avoid making the same crippling mistakes that shaped the world into its current abysmal state. Grand Romania can call it any name they want, can paste any label on top of the mission folders, but there remains a single truth: the country simply wants to gloriously reign on top of the world.  
  
Without letting constraints such as landmass and location affect their strategies and dreams for conquest, the country's efforts are focused on maintaining the exponential turnover rate for production of more SPHEREs and training pilots that will be able to control those machines. With a low count of five SPHEREs, Grand Romania's military firepower is limited and shackled to a second-class strength.   
  
Trainees and pilot hopefuls bearing the government-approved pilot tags fill the corridors and classrooms of the headquarters, almost as though to make sure that his eyesight is obstructed by those brats whenever he attempts to keep his eyes open.  
  
He calls it not giving a shit about this country's wishes: the way he's easily slicing through ribs and guts like he's simply waving his hands freely against air is almost like doing Grand Romania a favor of filtering the weaklings that will not amount to anything once behind the SPHERE's control panels.  
  
Heels click-clack against the floors, but he can't be too certain about that, since the jarring sounds of screams more than overwhelm his eardrums. Even if the reported weather conditions outside the headquarters spell black-lined clouds and particulate-heavy winds, the hallways are flooded with bright streams of light from the high ceiling fixtures. This massacre is occurring in plain sight, with proof of his traitorous killing spree easily available to those who would care to implicate him.  
  
…Honestly, he finds it hard to believe that somebody will even be alerted of this rampage within the next four hours. It's a bit of a stretch, but he can almost feel eyes boring through his back as he sidesteps a futile attempt of some idiot to deliver a vengeful blow in return for him slicing someone. Revenge is meaningless in a sea of corpses that he doesn't recognize, so he doesn't even bother giving one of his attackers a chance to prove his worth to him. The fact that his sword meets near-zero resistance when he slices through air and bodies is a good enough sign that this place is overrun with worthless beings that will never stand a chance against the responsibility of piloting SPHEREs.   
  
There's someone to his left who lets out a bloodcurdling wail, souring his expression. Unnecessarily, he stabs her throat first, something like a punishment for displeasing him with her voice. Everyone seems to be crying and shouting all at once, but his vision doesn't shift or doesn't cloud over with the now-familiar immense bloodlust. It's almost like he's starting to control the Bloody Beast tendency to just unconsciously slaughter everything within range, but he's more self-aware than that. He understands that the strength lent to him via artificial means is simply running out, dwindling down and rusting the gears that make his body move forward.  
  
Nevertheless, this is only the first station of his final journey.  
  
He isn't noble enough to pay so much concern with keeping his promises, but he does wish to transfer this burden of supremacy to someone else. And because this is simply the beginning of the end, he continues to stop the people around him on their tracks, stealing their lives because that's the way this world works.  
  
Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
***  
  
Coup d'état is the term that can explain the scenario that's unfolding from the choices he has acknowledged with his hands. Grand Romania doesn't see it coming—…well, the country did futilely try to struggle against the horrific discovery that most of their pilot hopefuls have been easily turned to mincemeat—surely didn't expect that the teenager they entrusted their future with turns out to be the one who'll bring the country down from the inside.  
  
Revolutions always depend on the side that comes out on top after a full turn, but rather unfairly at this point, almost all of Grand Romania's top officials and top fighters have already been taken care of. He supposes the circumstances now are rather different compared to another kingdom's fall into ruin, because right now he cannot imagine losing to the rest of the country's occupants. Not when nobody had been able to stop him running his bladed hands right through a body count matching the Slayer's, not when nobody had been able to capture him even if everything has been done without any cover-ups, not when nobody had been able to prevent him from settling comfortably in the top floors of the headquarters so he can easily watch them struggle to crawl up to his location.  
  
Herzog Kingdom's fall's only similarity to this scenario is the swift timeline, almost like the building blocks have suddenly turned into dust, almost like the pillars holding up the kingdom's honor and dignity have been simultaneously detonated. Frowning, he impatiently drums his fingers against the long office table he dragged all the way out to the middle of the launch hangar. He's never been inclined to reminisce his past, especially those moments of limbo-like trance while he awaited the judgment of survival upon him. Herzog Kingdom has long fallen, with a long enough passage of time to properly convince everyone that it won't ever be climbing out of its ruins.  
  
…Of course, once word gets out that someone from the noble line of Herzog Kingdom has started to make a move to conquer a country that's not his own, there's no doubt that some of the crazier Herzog nationalists will be more than happy to take this as a sign that it's about time for them to be serious in restoring their home country's glory.  
  
Not like he gives a shit about though; he's only doing this because of that promise that day, nothing more, nothing less.  
  
Even if he hasn't exchanged words—written, electronic, silent—otherwise with Oliver, the two of them are here at the same time, the same place, as though everything they've done has synchronized with each other. It's almost fascinating and he would have paid more attention to that if he had the interest to.   
  
He's here to enjoy these last few stations of his prolonged journey to his own death.  
  
Knowing Oliver, there are tons of strategically favorable reasons why taking over the top floors is the correct way to conquer Grand Romania. Reasons like taking control of all the SPHEREs and the intelligence databases mean nothing to him—it's not like he's keen on hacking into the government's total control of the headquarters' security system, especially since being on top of a dark tower is an incredibly easy way of acting as bait, as a taunt, to those who want to reach him.  
  
He relaxes back against the reclining chair he has pilfered from the research analysis room, slowly ceasing his insistent drumming against the glass table.  
  
Since there are only two of them inside the spacious launch hangar, he can practically hear each heartbeat resonating from Oliver, even as the sound systems installed at every imaginable corner of the headquarters blast one thing: the report about the King's death.   
  
A little disbelief remains in his system as he somehow refuses to accept the fact that there are people as stupid as the Grand Romania bureaucrats who easily got swindled and fooled by a teenager playing a dangerous masquerade with the King's body-corpse-skeleton. There are only so many excuses that could attempt to cover-up a physical inability to show oneself in front of other people, but Oliver managed to outright convince the entire government that their so-called Highest King didn't suffer from any mutilating experiments, didn't die in most humiliating possible. He knows he should grant a bit of credit to Oliver for his resourcefulness and newly-discovered talent with spinning lies, but the officials' and staff's incompetence are what allowed the charade to go on for so long.  
  
Nevertheless, the end result is still the same: instability soaks through the cracks of Grand Romania's surprisingly fragile government, with righteous, honorable children working up such pretty rage to avenge their fathers.  
  
He smiles slightly as he watches the security feed of Black struggling to get past the blockades that Oliver has placed around the hangar's outside perimeter. Just like how numbers do not lie when they proclaim that Rei is a million times better than him, the statistics also do not lie when it comes to demonstrating the wide difference between him and the only other registered pilot left alive to uphold Grand Romania's tainted name and questionable honor. Despite the certainty of his victory upon their inevitable clash, he's looking forward to fighting Black, because vengeance can provide unexpectedly strong boosts in power. He hasn't experienced such a power boost from revenge—if only for the sole reason that he's never had the need to avenge anyone at all—but that's what the country's military researchers have discovered.   
  
…Instead of doing the right thing by focusing his gaze on the security feed, Oliver's eyes are trained upon his form.  
  
He feels the heaviness of the look, almost suffocates from the weight of the uncharacteristic concern. Oliver is smart, regardless of how the rest of world considers him, so he definitely understands that Black is going to crash into their little fortress with such dignified aura that it will be impossible not to futilely root for his victory.  
  
…Since this is a day when everything changes, he allows himself a small smile at the thought of some puny brat's concern pinned uncharacteristically, undeservingly, upon him.  
  
"Let him in," he commands the brat wasting his time staring at him. There's no point in stretching this moment tautly across minutes when everything can be over in a blink. He rises from his seat, the near-silent squeaks now positively deafening in the solitary battlefield. He takes slow, but confident steps towards the only opening in this entire fortress, certain that Oliver will be scurrying after him with an expression awash with doubt and hesitation. "Let's go welcome him, hmm?"  
  
Oliver does follow his instructions; the sound of the metal barricades retreating to their containers above ringing insistently in his ears. Louder than the sound of the fortress's defense intentionally withdrawing for a brief moment, Black's noisy exhalations echo in the emptied launch hangar.   
  
Black practically bulldozes towards him, waving around a gun that doesn't look threatening in the slightest. He's tempted to comment about how using weapons that look like they've been stolen from national museums and archives exude very little dangerous aura. He keeps his mouth shut though, because it isn't in his policy to bother with other people's choice of weaponry.  
  
Nevertheless, toy-like gun or not, Black is fairly good when it comes to target shooting. The only question about this scenario is whether anger will sharpen Black's concentration or it will blur the other's eyesight to the point of missing messily.  
  
"You deserve to be thrown into the Abyss for your sins."  
  
…Of course Black will start lecturing them.  
  
Really?  
  
There's an ongoing rebellion and the first thing you do upon entering enemy territory is to start a goddamn lecture?!  
  
Priorities—Black really has strange ones.  
  
"Or rather, being dumped to the Black Sea will satisfy the ones you harmed with your little game."  
  
Thankfully for the other's self-preservation, Black does remember the more important things he should be doing, like pointing a gun straight at him. Black also makes a show of retrieving yet another artifact-looking weapon from his pocket—it's a dagger this time, with a jeweled handle.   
  
He almost loses control of his mouth and he almost comments about Black doing a very disgraceful act of robbing the national museum for his toys—but Black continues with his stern lecture anyway.  
  
"I've always known that you're incredibly messed-up," and here, he notices Black's eyes focusing on the brat surreptitiously hiding behind his back, on the person who actually is the cause of this coup d'état despite not looking like anyone important, "but I didn't think that you're cruel enough to drag an idiot like him to your silly games."  
  
This isn't a game—  
  
"He didn't threaten me—"  
  
"I'd need a stress ball once I'm king, you know?" He firmly cuts into Oliver's futile attempts of shedding some understanding light into this matter.  
  
Oliver pipes up, with a small, pathetic voice that fits someone as weak as him quite wonderfully. "He didn't—"  
  
"I'll send you directly to hell." Black cuts off Oliver this time, with an intense promise that will no doubt go nowhere.  
  
Black is easy to provoke, thankfully, because he isn't looking forward to exchanging words and debating ideologies and reasoning—especially since he's participating in this revolution with none of those things—and he's only here in this place because he's waiting for challenges to come hurtling towards his direction. Black is far from his level of strength but he's the next strongest person in the rankings; Black's the only person who can stop this revolution from completing a whole turn, who can stop this country from descending into a future that is so different from what it should be travelling on, who can stop this insanity from continuing.  
  
—He'll definitely die, Bloody Beast disease or not, the moment Black succeeds in stopping him and sentencing him to the highest level of punishment.  
  
…That's not such a hateful outcome.  
  
Black takes two steps back to widen the gap between the two of them, positioning his two weapons favorably, looking very much like the hand-to-hand combat instruction guides they've been asked to practice and emulate many times before. Likewise, he hears Oliver take a couple of steps away from the center of the launch hangar.   
  
It's just been a few months, but everything is different now.  
  
It's almost mysterious.  
  
But at this point, is there really anything else left to be bewildered about?  
  
Even if there weren't any agreements—written, electronic, nonverbal—reached between the two of them, he still knows the words that he should say at this moment, while held at gunpoint by someone thirsty for vengeance in return for a humiliation caused by them.  
  
"…Kill him."  
  
Kill him, just like the way The King was forcibly, shamelessly, removed from this world.  
  
He takes a couple of steps to the left, showing Oliver a straight path towards the target.  
  
And as though to conform to the bizarre labyrinth of today's events, Oliver replies with a toneless voice: "I will."  
  
***  
  
It isn't in his policy to meddle with petty grievances of pilots and pilot-wannabes beneath his rank, just as it isn't in his policy to bother with other people's principles and choices.  
  
Nevertheless, he ends up getting in-between two people currently undergoing a serious battle situation—not that the expected one-sided beatdown can be considered a battle situation at any cost. Cleared of any sort of hesitation, Black unflinchingly sets his gun towards Oliver's vital points, the intent to kill radiating like an intense forest fire in the middle of this winter-frosted launch hangar. Without warning shots wasted, it's a wonder that Oliver manages to scrape by the dangerous situation with only scratches and minor wounds.  
  
There hasn't been any agreements or compromises before the start of this coup d'état, but he supposes that since he's been steadily breaking his personal policies recently, doing something uncharacteristic will not hurt much.  
  
Eyes starting to blur with the telltale dizziness and murkiness that comes with the Bloody Beast disease, he disregards his perception of pain and distance as he jumps towards Black, landing on his left foot and swinging his right leg back to gain momentum, before letting his right foot form a decisive sidewise arc in order to upset Black's balance and line of fire. Conceptually, such motions require his joints to perform some inhuman rotations; he's currently using his strange condition to its fullest advantage, especially since Oliver is much weaker than him and therefore needs cover for whatever he's planning.  
  
Judging from Oliver's sudden stillness, it's entirely possible that even the brat isn't sure what he's planning himself.  
  
Black doesn't miss the opportunity to return his disrupted firing position, leaving him no other choice but to continue the onslaught of hand-to-hand combat against the orphaned pilot.  
  
He attempts to dislodge the dagger and the gun away from the other's hands, but Black is ready and quick to counter, withdrawing his elbows closer to his torso and keeping the dagger's sharp edge pointed forward. Undaunted, he sacrifices his left hand as he bare-handedly chops the fingers holding onto the dagger, repeating the same motion as Black refuses to let go of his pointed weapon.   
  
Within such close quarters, it's hard to draw his sword out; Black is definitely aware of that difficulty and is steadily keeping the distance between the two of them at a manageable range. Turning on his heel at almost-360-degrees, he keeps up with the fast-paced exchange of blows and attacks, dividing his attention effectively between the opponent in front of him and the idiot further ahead.   
  
He forms a closed fist with his right hand, before driving said fist upwards, hitting Black's jaw and chin. Despite the precarious situation, he's pleased to witness Black only stumble backwards mildly, he's elated to receive the counterpunch to his left shoulder. Pilot statistics place him way ahead of his opponent, but it seems that the idea of protecting this country's sullied honor is a great boost to Black's morale and strength.   
  
After spending practically his entire life loathing his own superiority, it's slightly refreshing to discover another person who can possibly bring him down from his throne.  
  
Firmly grabbing the fist that just punched him by his shoulder, he anchors Black in this position, as his right hand drives itself into the captured Black's stomach. Without wasting a moment and without giving a chance to recover, he follows it up by kneeing the exact same spot, twice.   
  
Black doubles over from the successive blows, hands painfully clutching him by the shoulders. His vision swims and blurs, almost like the old television technology with bad reception, and he literally doesn't see it coming: the way Black recovers quickly from getting kneed in the stomach, the way Black takes advantage of the close range by headbutting him quite solidly.  
  
It isn't like him to voluntarily limit himself, but moving away from this range will free Black to more maneuvers and will endanger that useless idiot even more. Gritting his teeth, he sneaks a peek towards where he last spotted Oliver, only to find that the brat has somehow successfully silently crawled away. Uncharacteristically, he sighs a little in relief—most likely just because this means he doesn't have to maintain the close distance between him and Black.  
  
Unfortunately, it's that small sigh that slackens his defenses somewhat, and before he can even properly dodge, before he can even blink, before he can even think, there's already a gun pointed to his face, then there's already a hiss of a bullet embedding itself on his flesh and bones. Reflexes sharpened by the Bloody Beast disease automatically lifts his left palm to press against the burning wound on his right shoulder joint. Instantly, he sidesteps the attacking Black's forward thrust of his dagger; instinctively, his body is propelled into a course of action that prioritizes minimizing bodily damage. It's those same instincts that bring his limbs into an array of motions that conclude with him narrowly avoiding a direct stab to the heart by redirecting the dagger to his upper thigh.  
  
Everything is now dyed in red according to his failing eyesight, but the moment Oliver enters his peripheral vision, he sees a spark of vivid green that almost glows like gemstones being incinerated.   
  
Oliver's movements are shabby and slow, but he succeeds wonderfully in shooting Black, two shots that break the graceful and noble appearance of an orphaned royalty. Of course, it's entirely possible that the only reason that Oliver was able to make his bullets connect is because Black is too horrified to properly avoid the amateurish shots.  
  
Removing any other ambiguity about the situation, The King's corpse looms from behind Oliver, held together by a glass cylinder that freezes time cheaply and effectively, bound together by a certain teenager's actions that hold no regard for others' circumstances. Frozen like a statue crafted out of inexpensive cement, The King's tattered robe does nothing to hide the dismal state of his mutilated face, just as the cryogenic solution does nothing to change the mortified expression forever saved upon the once-proud face.  
  
"It's you…?"   
  
Oliver's hands are nervously wrapped around a gun that definitely doesn't belong to low-class trainees like him, but he supposes that he can still lay claim on the title of being The King's murderer, as long as that idiotic brat doesn't verbalize the truth.  
  
The solemn nod breaks the possibility of him redirecting Black's attention and wrath.  
  
He's somewhat torn between groaning in frustration and clapping in approval at the sudden burst of bravery and honesty spilling out of Oliver.  
  
"I'm sorry," Oliver murmurs conceitedly, because only a self-serving person can waltz around with a corpse and have the guts to utter an apology in front of the bereaved person's face, because the word 'sorry' doesn't mean anything when there's a gun accompanying his proclamations, "I'm sorry it came to this."  
  
There's absolutely no remorse in the way Oliver robbed the entire country of their future.  
  
He takes a half-step back, his shoes clicking against the floor, his motions' sounds swallowed by the gurgled, incomprehensible cry of utter rage roaring out of Black's mouth.  
  
Everything happens in a split-second in his world that only has a curtain of red and a speck of green—his right hand tense on top of his sword's hilt; Black's hand untouched by the shallow gunshots raised in a wide arc, dagger held tightly; Oliver's right arm trembling, yet maintaining a determined angle with his raised gun—and it's only a brief moment where everything ends.  
  
Black's body flops forward without any of the dignified grace that has obsessively ruled over all of his actions during his shortened life. Three holes pierce his body, modified bullets leaving smoking holes in the other's completely human flesh, gunshot wounds that gain an entirely different level of deadliness in them once Oliver actually focuses in shooting.  
  
He doesn't see Black's final expression, though he can guess that it's most likely a terrifying sort of rage that can only come hand-in-hand with being destroyed in the most humiliating way possible.  
  
Guiltlessly, he walks over the where Black's corpse is releasing the dirty insides of a human body, nudging the unmoving body with the tip of his shoes.  
  
Sandwiched in-between the two corpses of the two royal family members that he has killed, Oliver sinks to the ground as well, knees painted crimson by Black's spilled blood. Oliver looks blankly forward, eerie silence upon his throat.  
  
He breathes in a deep inhale that does nothing to satisfy the strange void that suddenly forms in his gut. With this, the entire Grand Romania is theirs. There's nobody else capable of resisting against this revolution they have selfishly started for no apparent reason.   
  
"You're really stupid."  
  
He can't help those words from escaping him, especially since it's Oliver's decisions that have brought them here to this point.  
  
Outside of this captured headquarters, the rest of the world moves on with their own agenda, uncaring about the two teenagers that have cruelly and nonchalantly swerved an entire country's future forcibly.  
  
Oliver nods to his words.  
  
He sees a certain expression fill Oliver's green eyes.  
  
He doesn't like it—the way blankness fades away to give room for something that shouldn't be there.  
  
He leaves Oliver there, in the middle of the beginning of the end of his humanity.  
  
There should have only been twisted hate spiraling between the two of them—nothing more, nothing less.  
  
But the expression on Oliver's eyes that dominates the vast emptiness of the entire area isn't hate—it's an emotion that is almost enough to drive back all the blurry scarlet hues that ominously clouds his eyesight.  
  
It's—  
  
It's an emotion that he doesn't recognize at all.  
  
***  
  
Uselessly and lazily lounging in comfortable couches can only stay interesting for so long.   
  
Three days since Black's demise and he's already feeling the pinpricks of annoyance in his skin, the urge to do something-anything-everything bubbling up from within him. It's never been his personal policy to be a good, obedient kid that follows society's boring standards of right and wrong, but it's also not within his personality to simply lie back and watch the world wander into a wonderland of chaos. Three days since the verification of their success as revolutionaries and Grand Romania is already molded into something different, to an almost unrecognizable country. Three days have never been significant to him before, but now it holds the meaning behind the strange vigor that Oliver has been treating this hostile takeover with.  
  
He has never pegged Oliver as the type of person who finds pleasure in dominating over others, but it seems that he's very off about his expectations. Of course, the radical changes in Oliver's personality and actions are only happening because of their bizarre involvement in each other's lives, so technically it's his fault. He idly remembers wishing before for Oliver to grow out of his annoyingly passive mentality, so he supposes that this is now a result of his whims being granted.   
  
"My King," the soft-spoken announcement that follows the whisper-silent slide of the door is unnecessary, given that there's nobody else occupying the topmost floor of the headquarters, "I have compiled today's security reports."  
  
Quite honestly, he doesn't really give much weight to the nitty-gritty details of how the headquarters manages to stay upright despite the turbulent hearts of its citizens and the unforgiving state of the outside weather. That's probably why Oliver is the one who's shouldering that burden in this little game of playing house—he has no patience for compiling and comprehending data of things that are too inconsequential for him to be bothered with.  
  
"Go ahead." Acting as Grand Romania's Highest King turns boring quickly, but he supposes that his stress-free reign is only thanks to Oliver's daily efforts. It isn't characteristic of him, but he's regretting, slightly, his decision to inform Oliver about the decaying state of not only his eyesight but also his life force.  
  
Almost like a mechanical doll, Oliver starts rattling off coordinates and accompanying actions, detached tone effective in showing just how much Oliver has changed recently. There is still a shade of that cowardly idiot hiding beneath the lifeless statements, but it's mostly covered by the grim reports and the cool subordination.   
  
He stretches with a sleepy yawn, his face nearly splitting in half with the action; Oliver doesn't even twitch in reaction. He's not sure if he should find this boring or interesting, this newfound coolness. He's only sure that he isn't paying much attention to the words leaving Oliver's mouth, if only for the sole reason that if it's vital information that he needs to know immediately, Oliver would have worn a more panicked expression. Since Oliver still looks stoic—unhealthy pallor upon his skin, sleepless nights darkening the space under his eyes—it's safe to function under the assumption that there's no need to be alarmed or anything.  
  
"—it's been going smoothly." Oliver's face relaxes, slightly, the tension on his lips fading away into folds of uncertainty and subservience. He almost appears happy, contented, and the foreign look on that face is enough to jolt him out of his inattentive trance. "If we can convince every single citizen to cooperate, it's possible to build half the tower within three weeks. According to my calculations, a ten-hour workday is not unachievable."  
  
There's no spoken question afterward, though he can hear the silent plea for approval, almost as though Oliver is asking for his acquiescence with this charade they're playing.  
  
"…That's fine," he relents in giving out the agreement that Oliver is fishing from him, "I'm sure everybody can do it if they just quit complaining about every single shitty thing happening in their lives."  
  
Oliver nods in acknowledgement, placing two file folders atop the wide office table beside the plush couch. "The green folder has the proposed work schedules, compensation, workforce management analysis and target timelines. The blue folder on top has the approval slips that will need your signature and your royal seal."  
  
Rolling his eyes, he declines to comment on the strange civility and the office demeanor ruling their conversation. He isn't particularly in any mood to ostracize Oliver today. He lifts a hand awash with a crimson paint that only exists in the privacy of his own eyes. He places said hand atop the folders that are awaiting his attention and approval. He doesn't start signing the papers that he doesn't have any plans on reading. He inclines his head slightly, granting Oliver the luxury of a few seconds to start gathering his non-existent courage to outright breach the topic of the conqueror's initial quest.  
  
"You do know that I don't really read these things, don't you?"  
  
Oliver bows his head a little more, accepting his apathetic tone. "My job is to do everything right so that you don't have to."  
  
"How convenient for me," he murmurs offhandedly, flipping through the pages while his (blind) eyes are fixed on watching Oliver's actions.  
  
"…ALLEMAGNE is the best place to start," Oliver places a thick folder beside the others, a dull thud accompanying the motion, "getting the cabinet's approval should be easy. In case they don't agree, well…"  
  
"Hmph."  
  
"…is something wrong?"  
  
"It's just hilarious to see you like—" His gestures manage to be mundane yet offensive at the same time. "—this, all cool and shit."  
  
"…Glad to know that you're enjoying yourself." Oliver obliquely replies to the wrong comment and false sentiment.  
  
Oliver had already been metamorphosing into someone completely different, but it's his statement yesterday that has sparked this odd change. Isn't it his fault then—because he is the reason for this inexplicable and unreasonable transformation?  
  
"You can leave now."  
  
"My King—" Oliver hesitates, tension tightening around his posture. "Are you going to—?"  
  
Without reading the papers and the ink splattered accurately over each line, he signs the necessary pages with a flourish, speedily affixing his royal seal on the papers that hold no significance to him. He isn't in the mood to continue staying cooped up in this room, but thankfully Oliver's daily security report grants him the reason to leave this place for someplace more exciting.   
  
"You can't stop me."  
  
"…I understand that." Oliver sounds resigned, defeated effortlessly despite being the person truly behind the coup d'état and the forceful reconstruction of the broken country afterwards. Possessing an intelligence that serves as compensation for lacking any semblance of physical prowess, Oliver chooses the phrase that will bear the least amount of friction. "…Have fun."  
  
Greed for power doesn't interest him in the slightest, but his position as King is born out of something else entirely. Conspirators crowding around the Castles of Nevermore want to seize the throne in the middle of this chaotic civic confusion—they're definitely starving for supremacy. Crushing their goals and dreams into little unrecognizable pieces is bound to be enjoyable.  
  
That's why, despite his impending total blindness, he finds it in him to grin mischievously in reply.  
  
"I will."  
  
***  
  
Living in grandiose pieces of architecture isn't new or even interesting for him, though he isn't going to deny that the dimly-lit hallways have acquired a different feel to them, compared to the last time he'd been (locked) here.   
  
Most of Grand Romania's citizens have only seen the Castles of Nevermore from propaganda-filled newspapers and government-controlled broadcasts. Most of them are familiar with the imposing image of the aristocratic piece of history that has stayed standing despite the hundreds of years corroding the fortress-like partitions separating the Castles of Nevermore from the rest of the world. Mist thickly blankets the dark grey castle walls like a blinding veil, the arctic temperature made worse by the recent atmospheric changes. Fittingly for a structure pinpointing the division and the junction between the underground and the aboveground territories, the Castles of Nevermore suitably appears spooky and lost in the middle of warring worlds.  
  
Serving as the only piece of Grand Romania left by Ancient History, the Castles of Nevermore is enriched with the country's history steeped in blood.  
  
He doesn't have any interest in sightseeing or in revering the artful statues and winding corridors. He marches right ahead into the palace that doesn't house any real royalty; he doesn't bother with disguising himself or with tampering with the security system's expanded network. He confidently strides into each room, kicking each door open loudly to announce his unwelcome presence, left hand casually holding onto the hilt of his sheathed sword, right hand raised parallel to the ground and perpendicular to the person(s) he shoots without hesitation.  
  
One hundred rooms at least for the entire castle, so he needs to work quickly and efficiently. He doesn't wait for the shock and anger to sink their claws into his victims' faces, just as he doesn't wait for their sputtered words that include imperfect lies and unwanted explanations for their presence in this place marked as a magnet for terrorist activity. He doesn't examine the blueprints scattered all over the castle's many rooms; he simply burns them all by either expertly shooting a nearby power outlet or igniting a faulty gas bulb. He doesn't care for their plans or their innocence, because they're all guilty anyway.  
  
Oliver's twenty-page detailed security report says so.  
  
Completing the first floor—the one nearest to the underground entry toll gate—takes nearly nineteen minutes, despite his brisk walking pace unaffected by any sort of enthusiasm or reverence for the artistic designs on the castle's inside walls and the elegant preserved paintings consolidated and then dispersed amongst several viewing parlors. Unless Grand Romania's citizens are really that ridiculously stupid, the anti-government rebels on the upper floors are already well-informed of the presence of a lone entity taking on every single member of their terrorist organization effortlessly.  
  
Most of the rooms located at the second floor are modified and expanded to accommodate the huge research supercomputers and machines—but right now, the hallways are eerily empty, to the point that his footsteps echo unnecessarily with each step he makes. Castles of Nevermore has long served the role of harboring the experiments that are meant to be hidden from the general populace's knowledge—but right now, it's instead filled with bureaucrats and nobles and military bigwigs occupying the castle as they move past their differences and personal goals in order to retrieve the position snatched away from them by two teenagers.  
  
Nevertheless, he does a thorough sweep of the area, systematically opening doors and inspecting the possible entrances and exits for signs of life.  
  
He walks faster despite the faint dizziness settling from behind his head, because he isn't into spending extended amounts of time in the gloomy atmosphere and gray-hued surroundings, especially since his eyesight is already impaired beyond simple deterioration.   
  
Four more floors to go—he's half-hoping that the conspirators instead seek him out, so that he doesn't have to go through all this trouble of checking every nook-and-cranny of the huge castle. He even graciously uses the spiral staircase to reach the third floor, letting himself become easy to spot even by moronically blind idiots. He sighs in vague disappointment as he remains unchallenged by the time he reaches the end of the third floor's hallways. He spies the very obvious traces of human life and abandoned paperwork with great distaste; not only did the rebels appear to be nothing but cowards, apparently they're also messy and uncoordinated idiots.  
  
The third floor is quiet but it's the type of silence that's a fruit of forced hushing and muted hustling. He's rather grateful for this development—he's getting somewhere at the very least. He hears the despair-tainted shuffling of footsteps from above; he's looking forward to continuing his march across all of these rooms and his blade slicing through all of their lives.   
  
It isn't so obvious in his previous daily routine, but there are a lot of people involved in the government of Grand Romania, people who have lots of things to say about the recent changes that are suddenly imposed on them. It's a piece of knowledge that he wouldn't have realized before today, just as he wouldn't have any use for that piece of information unless the grand revolution of theirs didn't push through.  
  
Every day is a learning process, he supposes, even if waxing philosophical isn't one of his strong suits.  
  
Heavy curtains are drawn over the huge glass windows punctuating each break in the castle's walls—a futile endeavor in his opinion, since the outside view is hardly worth seeing, since the outside world is ensconced in blinding darkness anyway.   
  
The entire world is welcome to persevere in breaking through the obstacles separating this country from the rest, but Oliver's high-level security traps are unheard of with the type of technology that currently exists; the entire Grand Romania can howl with anguished sorrow with all of their voices, but the rest of the world's apathy will not allow any other reaction aside from an ice-cold indifference.   
  
"STOP RIGHT THERE!"  
  
…Ah.  
  
How surprising.  
  
He's already considering them as cowards, but the sudden burst of exclamation isn't characteristic of cowardice. Lightly, he tilts his head to the right, pondering about this development for a couple of seconds. This is a good thing—not only is he spared of the trouble of hunting down the rebels one by one, he's also going to be able to fight more soon. True, he'll probably have to deal with (unnecessary) words of anger and (useless) bravado, but this is still (ultimately) a good development.  
  
One hand remains limp and casual atop his glass-thin sword's hilt, while his right hand reeks of gunpowder and silver-borne bullets. Hidden artillery weigh on his right hip and on the holster near his buttocks, leaving only one gun visible for the ambush team to see. Compared to their unabashed display of mounted long guns and unsheathed gleaming swords, he looks like a weakling being ganged on by an overwhelming circle of bullies, much like how Oliver trudged through his everyday life before the 'Great Revolution', as the citizens have started to call it.  
  
"I'll stop right here," he murmurs just loud enough to be heard by the angry rush of hormones in the rebels' bodies, "and then what?"  
  
"And then we are going to put you back in your proper place," comes the seething answer from a person he's never had contact with since his mission against Rei oh-so-very-long ago.  
  
"Wow," he makes sure to inject just the right amount of pinched sarcasm in his words to address his supervisor who's apparently still alive despite his inherent weakness, "you're still alive?"  
  
Without losing a beat, his supervisor growls words that fall upon disinterested ears. "You'll pay for your actions."  
  
Instead of his usual excitement that underlines his actions whenever he's about to indulge in violence, there's instead an overwhelming taste of disgust curling upon the flat of his tongue. These are people who have a myriad of valid reasons for their rebellion, but if his (previous) supervisor is the one leading their operations, then they're nothing but just a bunch of misled lambs that are fighting under a banner of lies. Of course, the reasoning and philosophy behind human actions don't really matter in the grand scheme of things, but he still can't ignore the wave of nausea that washes over his entire being as he thinks of his (previous) supervisor's obsessive devotion towards the (previous) King.  
  
Romantic fanatics should be outlawed, he suddenly thinks.  
  
Love makes the world go around and around until every drop of energy and effort have been exhausted and emptied out of everyone.  
  
It's a dance of madness he doesn't care for participating in.  
  
"Make me pay then," he breathes out this challenge without any genuine interest, not because he doesn't gleefully invite people to actually try to put an end to his wicked ways, but because he has already judged the splay of rebels in front of him as weak, weak, weak.   
  
He brings his right hand forward, his gun beckoning for them to attack.  
  
"Come."  
  
***  
  
Making an effort to minimize the amount of splatter is surprisingly harder to accomplish, compared to his usual acts of simply burning a trail of flashy killings through the line of wide-eyed sacrifices. Nevertheless, he's more or less successful with annihilating the entire rebel army occupying the Castles of Nevermore within just a couple of hours. Most of the rooms that have huge experimental machines locked inside them are stain-free, just as the storage quarters filled to the brim with stocked weaponry are undecorated with disgusting human innards.  
  
The ding of the elevator doors opening ricochet around the expanse of empty hallways that lead a labyrinth inside the topmost floor of this headquarters. The entire tower is now completely vacated, with each floor littered with things overturned with panic and corpses overrun with chaos. The cleaner robots are all sleeping with their electronic dreams, ready for an endless stream of work after the mandatory three-hour charging.  
  
With the final hope of rebellion snuffed out like a pitiful dying candlelit flame, there's nobody else who can lead the outcry against the forceful leadership under a person who was just a pilot mere days ago.  
  
He's now truly the King.  
  
To his left lies the twisted throne room, transformed into a huge office decked with computers and synchronized security system feedbacks, tailored to fit a young King that has no use for lavish bedrooms and intricate courts. The path on his right leads to the launch hangar housing sleeping SPHEREs that now belong to nobody else aside from him, given that he's the only qualified pilot left in the entire kingdom.  
  
There's always the option of opening the doors of this lonely tower to civilians willing to swallow their pride and to trample upon their own loyalty and dignity to this country's culture and past, just so that this headquarters will not only serve as the residence for two (foreigners) people. He's not that thrilled to scrutinize potential pilots one by one to ascertain that they wouldn't harbor plans of screwing around with the fragile system that's not even established fully yet.  
  
…Of course, at the back of his mind, he's already delegating those annoying chores to Oliver.  
  
Oliver might be developing in some strange direction, but he's fairly confident that there are still a lot of things that will remain the same, like Oliver's illogical loyalty to the idea of keeping him alive and on top of everyone else. He's certain that Oliver will take care of everything else that he'll leave untouched when it comes to governing this country, so it doesn't sound like a terrible idea to actually give Oliver some semblance of acknowledgement and status—things that have surely been deprived of Oliver even during his past as a noble in a kingdom that had been the paragon of power.  
  
Steadily, he walks towards the left corridors, his steps unbothered by thoughts about having left one prisoner from his trip to the Castles of Nevermore, his gait undisturbed by the one-in-a-millionth possibility that his prisoner might actually gain the ability to escape despite his special… state. Torture disinterests him, though he's more than willing to make an exception for his previous supervisor, since there's still a favor he needs to repay regarding that. Priorities-wise though, settling things with his previous supervisor comes second to his commitment to the idea of crowning Oliver with a position stained with blood and a title stripped of pride.   
  
Upon reaching his destination, the doors slide open in reaction to his presence, the sound startlingly clear despite the smoothed metal edges gliding against top quality carpet threads.  
  
Oliver's back is small and frail against the deep darkness framed by the glass windows, a puny human standing miserably in front of an entire world that would never acknowledge his existence nor his exceptional intellect. If his eyes aren't damaged by the drugs administered regularly to his system, he should be able to recognize the sight of a second tower being made by employees that have no choice but to work in an environment that will rob them of their lives the moment they are careless enough to pierce their specialized suits designed to combat the harshness of the earth's atmosphere.  
  
Computers are humming with their own designated commands, but he doesn't pay attention to them aside from the split-second of recognition that Oliver has already expanded his responsibilities into taking care of the citizens' endless protests about their right to refuse objectionable jobs and their right to their own rest from the backbreaking workload that keeps on just getting more difficult. Seeing the country's management stabilize and expand makes it very hard to believe that it's only been four days since he and Oliver successfully eliminated Davy Black and made their unreasonable declarations of possession over Grand Romania.  
  
He alternates between being bored beyond his skull and being exhausted by the mere thought of the things that he must do.  
  
It's almost like he's buzzing with life.  
  
It's kind of weird, especially since he's doubly aware of his dwindling life force, since there's an unspoken countdown creeping closer to zero about his continued existence.  
  
…But it's not like he's here to wonder upon the accelerated rate of everything rushing forward to a certain doom.  
  
"Congratulations on your promotion," without any preamble, he's granting the title that has eluded Oliver's grasp for years, but not before deciding that he wants to keep the meaningless spot as top-ranked, "02."  
  
Second-in-command, second-best, second-ranked—any of those apply to Oliver now.  
  
Promotion to pilot usually happens in a grand ceremony, but there's no point in following that tradition, since there's only the two of them in this enclosed space that will soon break boundaries if their expansion plans manage to push through without much interference.   
  
Oliver's back relaxes slightly—a sight that he has no idea he can detect, given the deterioration of his eyesight—almost like this development has already been expected and anticipated, though cloaked with a cowardly refusal to accept improvement. Getting this idea of his predicted effortlessly doesn't irk him in the slightest, because while he scathingly reminds Oliver of his absence of physical strength, he also recognizes the odd intelligence that seems to act as overcompensation for weakness.  
  
There's a rustle of movement from the back that appears all-too-clear despite the heavy curtain over his eyes—shoulders shrug with a sigh of sorrowful lethargy.  
  
He thinks of the things that he needs to do to keep up this charade of being King, of missions that he needs to accomplish to continue holding onto this disappearing life, of thoughts that he needs to forget to proceed with the plans that still requires polishing. He thinks of how Oliver will surely burn out from the sleepless nights and restless days that are now making up his cycle of daily life. He thinks of how his previous supervisor will surely grow lonely if he left alone for too long without the punishment he richly deserves. He thinks of how his brother will surely corrode his own heart with guilt and jealousy once he learns of this revolution that widens their gap even more.  
  
He thinks of many things.  
  
Priorities, he reminds himself.  
  
He removes his filthy clothing, the sacrificed articles that allowed him to reduce the mess on the castles' rooms. He disentangles the weapon holsters around his hips, since there's absolutely no need for weaponry when he's inside this headquarters strangled securely by the spread of Oliver's security network. He kicks aside his bloodstained shoes, rendering himself completely naked while Oliver resolutely looks forward, possibly to avoid making eye-contact with the body that has made him suffer many times, probably to continue admiring the sight of blooming carnage below.  
  
After this, he will have to finish off his previous supervisor while capturing the last agonizing moments on film, not only to strike terror into the hearts of possible rebels, but also to establish himself as the absolute ruler of this country. He will have to make a formal announcement about Oliver becoming the 02 pilot. He will have to review the arrangements for tomorrow's nationwide broadcast of the new cabinet meeting.  
  
He will have to do many things.  
  
Wordlessly, he leaves the trail of clothes and returns to the empty hallways, his footsteps echoing clearly as he marches steadily towards the elevator hall.  
  
At the top of his to-do list…  
  
***  
  
"I hate you I hate you I hate you—"  
  
Regret doesn't quite cover the emotion welling within him right now. Sighing, he refocuses the camera's lens to zoom in on the furrowed eyebrows, the shivering neck, the heaving shoulders. Overhead lights are blinding for normal people who have functioning eyesight, but for someone like him, everything's just an indistinguishable, blurry scenario. Quite certainly, he has already stepped on the other's throat, in hopes of crushing that noisy voice and having this… session end without his ears ringing with annoyance. Humans are really admirably, ridiculously, resilient—for that voice to survive despite the rough treatment, for that anger to fail on subsiding despite the blood loss that must be plaguing his captive.  
  
"You're not going to succeed, you know. Because you're—"  
  
Coughing uncontrollably stops the outpour of words from further spilling out.  
  
He patiently waits for the racking of those damaged ribs to subside, before moving forward, his footsteps still echoing despite the relative noise level of this room.  
  
Security cameras are hidden in this room too, so anything else not captured by his own set-up will not be missed. He crouches down near his prisoner, taunting him with the apparently closeness, knowing that he can't be reached even if his captive struggles.  
  
"You're—" More coughing. "You're going to fail." He's certain that the glare will look more menacing if he can actually see the expression clearly. "You're just an arrogant kid playing king."  
  
…Yes, he is.  
  
But that doesn't stop the fact that he's now really king from being the truth.  
  
"You're right," he acknowledges, nudging a bruised cheek with the blunt end of his sword's hilt, "but it's not like you can do anything about it, hmm?"  
  
"You're not king." Without any gags, his captive continues mouthing off. "I won't acknowledge you."  
  
Snickering, he stands up straight, the sword's sheath whispering darkly against exposed metal. "I don't particularly care for your acknowledgement."  
  
He takes a small step to the right, leaving his previous supervisor's enraged face in full view of the camera, making way for the device to record a gruesome death that he's planning to deliver. Torture doesn't interest him as much as people would expect from someone with his personality, but he's more than game to do it if there's some purpose behind its application. Unreasonably stubborn subjects can't be expected to divulge important information about the objects of their loyalty, though the torture this time is for the sake of following the footsteps of the blatant propaganda that has lead this country for hundreds of years.  
  
Emotionlessly, he sharply rotates his wrist, wind whistling in his ears with the motion.  
  
Loud howls of agony fill the entire holding chamber, as his previous supervisor clambers to liberate his hands from their respective shackles, in futile hopes of using his limbs to cradle his wounded face and his severed ear. It's only one earlobe; there's still an extra one on the other side and it's not like it's a vital organ. He rolls his eyes in exasperation as he listens to the exaggerated screaming. He's a little sore about having had such a weakling preside over him in the past; if he can't even handle just one severed ear…  
  
"This is just the beginning."  
  
***  
  
"This will work, huh?"  
  
He gestures to the bound and gagged guests squirming on their chairs, a file-folder filled with the written documentation of today's agenda forgotten atop a fine-polished piece of furniture. He leans fully against the highest seat in the entire court, his back flat against the cushioned support of the throne befitting a king. He lets his eyes roam around the room once more before closing them entirely, since there's not much use letting his eyes dry out when he can't even see much. He can still hear the mostly-silenced groans and protests, so he knows that the guests that they have oh-so-graciously invited into their mostly-empty headquarters are still alive and conscious.  
  
After his hour-long torture session with his previous supervisor yesterday, Oliver had informed him about the little progress he had made regarding the search for new cabinet ministers. He had given his approval for Oliver to go along with whatever he had in mind to compensate for the lack of capable, trustworthy people in the country, but he honestly hadn't expected that it would lead to this. He had severely underestimated Oliver's knack for answering his expectations—he didn't think Oliver would have the resolve to actually kidnap the few remaining bureaucrats from the previous king's reign and force their presence here.  
  
"I think it will be better to do a more thorough search for capable ministers when we're not so pressed for time," Oliver sounds a little breathless and mildly disappointed as he flips through the file-folder until a specific page before placing it squarely in front of him, "but since it's imperative that we do this today…"  
  
Similar to the death-like black robes that comprise his pilot uniform, Oliver is now wearing an obsidian-hued coat, almost like he's trying to blend into the shadows and darkness of this kingdom. Oliver flits around the court chamber, fussing with the arrangements of the nationwide broadcast scheduled to let the entire country know about the plans and laws that nobody will have any choice but to obey. Court sessions like this used to symbolize compromise, but ideals like that remain a mockery now, with ministers forced to attend this session involuntarily, with agendas already agreed upon ahead of time.  
  
Less than half of the original cabinet that served under the previous King are present in this room—not because of any failure on Oliver's part, but because the rest have either committed suicide on their own accord, or have already been annihilated during the first day of the revolution. Getting the cabinet's approval is painfully easy, since they don't even have the luxury of having their real thoughts heard; broadcasting the supposed peaceful negotiations between the country's bigwigs is much harder to achieve.  
  
"You're really rushing this."  
  
Oliver inclines his head, the lengthened edges of his messy bangs hiding his eyes. "I apologize for the—"  
  
"It's fine." Offhandedly, he dismisses the unneeded apology; the reason behind Oliver's rush is something that he knows all too clearly, after all. He adjusts the stuffy high collar on his formal coat, giving in to the urge to massage faint lines on his upper neck. "Let's just finish this."  
  
"…As you wish, my King."  
  
Demurely—weirdly enough the action fits Oliver wonderfully—Oliver inclines his head to acknowledge his total deference, before snapping into action once more, determination running through each angle of his movements.  
  
Oliver moves in front of the minister that used to handle foreign policy relations, carefully undoing the gag tightly wound around fat lips. "I'll need—"  
  
Due to his poor eyesight, he isn't able to see where the spit projectile landed exactly, but he'd like to assume that nobody can miss at such a close range. The stiff silence that radiates from Oliver tells him that there's some certain offensiveness to the action that even Oliver's (annoying as fuck) passiveness bristles at.  
  
"I'll need samples of your voices," Oliver's voice is steady despite the mild commotion, betraying nothing, "so that we can move forward in our agenda." Oliver smiles a little, chilly and razor-sharp, as he pointedly wipes the wetness of his cheek. "Of course, it will certainly be more convenient for everyone if you voluntarily offer your voice samples, but rest assured that we have other methods of obtaining them."  
  
Even with his deteriorating eyesight, even from this distance, he can see Oliver's eyes glow like molten gemstones.  
  
He shivers in a mixture of delight and interest, breathing in and tasting the cold tension that wiggles disturbingly inside the court.  
  
It's so jarring, so out-of-place, so very interesting to witness Oliver acting like this, like a capable little right-hand-man, like an obedient number-two, like a heartless little soldier.  
  
Oliver's tone is convincing enough to suggest other painful means of obtaining said voice samples, even without an outright display of violence or without an obvious show-off of torture devices.  
  
Funnily enough though, Oliver's tone is also effective enough to spur on the misplaced pride of the bound ministers, as they all enthusiastically renew their protests against their bindings and their gags, rattling the heavy blocks of chairs they are bound against.   
  
"Know your place, scum," the minister-who-spat nastily rasps out, "I understand Ash Vlastvier being king, but you? You're useless low-life garbage."  
  
"…I suppose everyone here in this room shares the same opinion?"  
  
He smirks, sensing the obvious question hiding underneath, feeling Oliver's words reaching out for him to refute anything. He stays silent, eyes remaining open even though it's just for show since he's basically sightless anyway. He waits for Oliver to stop waiting for him.  
  
"…Alright." In flash-like movements, Oliver knocks the recently-ungagged minister's face into the nearby table, the impact causing an ominous sound to reverberate like a toll of impending doom. The exclamation of anguish and surprise is swallowed by the table's wooden material; Oliver shoves the face more fully against the table in response, nonchalantly muffling the minister's rebellious sounds and movements. Oliver's eyes are narrow and focused as he continuously lifts the minister's face from the ends of his hair and pushes the now-broken nose and now-bleeding mouth into the table in successive motions. "…It seems that I'll have to resort to other methods then."  
  
After almost five minutes of the repeated head-banging, Oliver lets the beaten minister slump breathlessly forward, allowing only a split-second of respite before replacing the gag with a flick of his hands.  
  
Idly, he observes the sharpness that aligns Oliver's hands into a straight line, the austere slant to those half-bitten lips, somewhat fascinated with the sheer purpose emanating from Oliver's movements. Previous physical tests and military statistics have all frowned upon the sluggishness that used to govern each of Oliver's limbs, but Oliver's almost like an energized hummingbird now, flitting through the compact spaces and not knocking against anything, expertly manipulating his entire body to move faster, quicker, sharper.  
  
In other a minute, Oliver successfully refocuses the odd-looking bulk of electronics that seems like a cross-mutation between a cinematic motion camera, a supercomputer and a super-compact reflector; in that short amount of time, Oliver has realigned the spaces and lines so that the minister-who-spat is surrounded by wooden holding fences on three sides and leaving only a tiny bit of open space where Oliver is standing.   
  
Odd nostalgia washes over him as he realizes that Oliver is now about to start a torture session that aims to draw out voice samples from the uncooperative ministers, when it hasn't even been a day since he has recorded his own torture session with his previous military supervisor. Oliver hasn't told him anything (yet) but he can read the future actions and plans brimming underneath Oliver's surface for now, and they involve (ambitious) creation of holograms in order to simulate the presence and complete agreement of the cabinet with all of their current and future policies.  
  
"Are you ready?" Oliver breathes out his question, almost like a bittersweet sigh. The minister-who-spat struggles wildly against his bindings, without any indication that he's aware of how useless his actions are, without paying attention to the piece of strengthened fiber wrapped between his teeth. "…Well. I suppose that nobody is ever ready for this."  
  
A push of a button—and the supercomputer flickers to life, a dull glow of light emanating from the cold chunk of metal parts. It is Oliver's most trusted companion, he supposes, since it's been the same computer that's been with him even during his days as a pathetic pilot trainee, even during the coup d'état, even now. It's the computer that houses the solid proof of Oliver's intellect, a voice-synthesis program that's now embedded to each web of the country's security network.  
  
Almost skipping, Oliver makes his way to the minister's back. Brandishing a blunt-ended hammer-like object, Oliver silently leans forward and swings down the hammer to an elbow, with enough force to cause pain, but not enough firmness to break any bones.  
  
He squints, narrowing his focus to the object in Oliver's hands, while ignoring the muffled protests from the bystanders and the controlled sounds from the minister in the spotlight. A blunt hammer can only dole out so much pain, but in the hands of someone so determined to get what he needs…  
  
Syllables are being muffled and absorbed by the supercomputer, but he isn't going to be surprised if Oliver has somehow transformed the filthy-looking gag between his captives' teeth into a vibration-measurement device of some sort. There's only so much words that could be discerned from a gagged mouth rife with agony; it really wouldn't shock him if Oliver's prepared for all possible scenarios that can give him what he needs.  
  
Without dragging the scene any further, Oliver drags the half-unconscious minister back to his initial seat, making room for the next victim efficiently, as time is of great importance. There are only a few more days until the end of the year and the plan is to introduce Grand Romania's strength to the world at the onset on New Year.  
  
…It's doubtful that Oliver will quietly acquiesce to him suddenly joining and then usurping the control of this interrogation… meeting—especially not when there's rigid purpose underlining every tense line of muscle and bone in that fragile, weak body. His interest has more than completely expired though, so he unrepentantly yawns without any shred of grace or abashment at being caught doing something so unlike royalty. His eyesight leaves much to be desired but he's fairly certain that his actions will not go unnoticed by the very busy Oliver. There's only but a moment's pause—a whirr of gears inside titanium-plated supercomputers and an exhale of exertion inside the cloak of skin over bones—before the rhythm of Oliver's steps hasten exponentially, before the tension in the room tightens tautly around each of their necks.  
  
"I'm giving you five more minutes," he obnoxiously calls out with a sleep-punctuated voice, just to be unreasonable.  
  
There's no way a normal human being will be able to go through all of the captives here and successfully obtain voice samples—but Oliver is hardly normal, isn't he? He's painfully below average to the point that it's almost fascinatingly strange; he's eerily powerful now, enclosed in his new outfit and his new rank, all provided to him by the one he should consider his most terrorizing enemy. There's no way an average human being will be able to accomplish the task he has not-so-subtly delegated, but Oliver is far from average, isn't he?   
  
…Undoubtedly, he's very interested to find his hypotheses proven right.  
  
***  
  
AETHER is in top condition—not that there's going to be a lot of workload for that huge chunk of metal in the recent future. Nevertheless, it brings him a strange sort of satisfaction to actually be on his hands and knees and surrounded by cables of varying thickness and length, armed with the knowledge that he's the one learning the intimate details of the connections of the machine that somehow breaks the boundaries of humanity. This marks the first time that he's actually been the one fine-tuning his own SPHERE—one of the advantages of completely wiping out the staff of the headquarters. Despite being the first-ranked pilot before, he's never had contact with the SPHERE unless it involved actual piloting inside the cockpit; maintenance and tuning have always been delegated to the mechanical engineers and the manual laborers.  
  
"I'm done," he calls out offhandedly to the person on the opposite side of the launch hangar—to the only other person in the entire floor—feeling another strange glimmer of emotion at working with someone on such close quarters of fifteen feet, another first for him. There's no immediate response, so his lips curl into a nasty snarl, ready to just jump down from the modified stepladder he's perched at, but then he actually hears a sound that surprises him a tiny bit.  
  
He hears the sound of pained breathing: almost like someone is pathetically crawling towards a far-away oasis in the middle of a glacier-like desert, even while all four limbs are held by thorny chains, even while an entire ribcage has been damaged with nothing but splintered bones digging into internal organs, even while someone cruelly steps down on the bruised and battered back…  
  
It's a sound that doesn't shock him one bit to escape from Oliver's lips; the surprising part is to hear it here and now. Here, where there's nothing that could even dare to think about approaching them, let alone hurt them; now, when there's nobody who could even formulate plans about bullying the passive teen into submission. The only things here are lifeless chunks of metal that simply need some maintenance work done on them to make sure they're at their best condition on that day.  
  
…it's one of the first times that he's actually wrong.  
  
Instead of doing an inspection and optimization on the hardware of the SPHERE, Oliver is instead inside the newest SPHERE that's somehow already ready for take-off. It's not even a full week since the start of its construction from raw materials—and now Oliver is test-driving it without doing any initial tests or any quality checks.  
  
It's crazy.  
  
It's completely anti-Oliver.  
  
…It's interesting.  
  
Boredom has been his number one state during the past couple of days where he's just lounging on the throne room, torturing some prisoners, signing some papers, scaring the shit out of the unlucky ones that were actually handpicked to work inside the headquarters. Today marks the first time that his interest actually reaches the maximum level—to the point that he actually drags a swivel chair just so he can comfortably watch Oliver's insanity and foolishness collide in a catastrophic mistake.  
  
Configurations and technical shit are of no consequence to him, so he can't claim to understand the specifics, but SPHEREs can somehow choose its pilots, in a way that only strong teenagers can actually successfully make it obey their thoughts. Cables that just look like giant snakes house sensors all throughout their bulk, so every thought and every plan is somehow being transmitted back to the SPHERE. Pilot selection is notorious for being incredibly hard for most of the population because of the severe stress it supposedly generates on one's mind.  
  
It's hardly expected of Oliver—the annoyingly passive and incredibly indecisive excuse of a fool—to possess physical strength and mental fortitude to withstand the untested-as-of-yet SPHERE.  
  
The most likely outcome is insanity and total breakdown—a coma, he decides with a touch of glee on his face. Configurations and technical shit are definitely right up Oliver's alley, so there's no way he wasn't aware of the probable results of this craziness.   
  
There's blood all over Oliver's mouth and jaw; he didn't even have to bite those chapped lips to attain the effect.  
  
"He probably accidentally bit his tongue," he muses out loud because there's nobody to hear his words. …Well, the microphone switch is set to ON, but it's doubtful that Oliver has enough presence of mind to pay attention to him. "Or maybe he's deliberately doing that to muffle his screams? Hmm…"  
  
Oliver's eyes are dilated in a mostly-silent scream.  
  
It's almost like a cheap, grotesque, too-real Halloween costume that's going to be buried underneath all the skimpy witch outfits and vampire imitations.  
  
Staring at Oliver's bleeding face gets boring quickly though, so he moves around the space in front of the control panel, looking at each counter and flipping through each folder. There's an abundance of inconsequential information staring back at him, so he flops back down to his chair, the wheels skidding backwards slightly. His eyes itch at the prolonged use and he looks down at the modified watch hugging his left wrist. He presses a tiny button on the right side of the watch; a timer that digitally informs him that it took 04 HR 23 MIN 41 SEC for the effectiveness of the trial-drug for his eyes to wear out.  
  
Even with all the itchiness, it's not like he's completely blind right now, so he spares the last few moments of his blurrier-than-average eyesight on watching Oliver and his masochistic tendencies. There's strange wave of something akin to awe once he compares the lazy-bum crawl of his past few days to the over-productive way Oliver has been spending his time.   
  
In-between taking control of the entire headquarters' security system, commandeering the underground cities' controls, constructing the newest SPHERE, building a second tower for the headquarters, organizing the new cabinet of ministers, inventing a new electronic super-missile, subjecting corpses to human studies for alternative medicines, concocting solutions to help prevent the side-effects of the Bloody Beast Disease, and of course, serving the King… Oliver has really outdone himself, foregoing sleep and rest in exchange for gaining more time.  
  
"…PLATINUM, huh?"  
  
There's a soundless alarm that flashes in the middle of the widest screen, easily acquiring his attention.  
  
The test drive is finished even though PLATINUM hasn't moved a single inch. It's all battle simulations and imaginary spaces; it's almost unfair how that is more dangerous than actual reality. There's enough red on the results graph to make it seem like the entire screen has been drenched with blood; there's no surprise that the results are way below satisfactory levels.   
  
Oliver isn't meant to be a pilot—that's a fact that's been made certain even before the revolution. Oliver isn't going to let him be the one to lead the attack on New Year—that's also another fact that's been made certain possibly even before the two of them even had a more defined boundary of king and subordinate.  
  
"You're crazy," he tells the half-conscious Oliver that slumps readily forward against the cockpit controls as soon as the holding cables retreat. There's no acknowledgement or repentance or even sheepishness from the foolish idiot who thinks he can bend the rules of the universe just because the world seems to be ending. Despite being the king of this entire domain now, he doesn't hesitate in taking a bleeding and swollen arm and slinging that across his own shoulder so that he can drag the useless fool away from this mess.   
  
Given the way Oliver obsessively… obsesses over controlling every single aspect of the overhaul of Grand Romania, he's definitely going to be unhappy once he regains consciousness.   
  
Without another thought, he ends up bringing the injured failure of a pilot to his own room just so he can easily watch the reactions that are definitely going to be interesting.  
  
***  
  
Digital numbers trickle down like a slow downpour of artificial rain, the values measuredly decreasing with each passing moment, the meaning lost to the world steadily marching at a pace wildly different from the countdown timer's. Night and day lost their significance countless of years ago, but inside the dimly-lit throne room nestled inside a bleak tower, everything exists in a suspended limbo of cruel apathy.   
  
Strengthened glass windows surround each corner of the room; there's nothing to see from beyond the tower; there's nothing to see because of the thick soundproof curtains cascading to the carpeted floor; there's nothing to see because his eyes are closed; there's nothing to see because his eyes are blind.  
  
Most kings who have successfully etched their names into slabs of stone and rolls of paper—a cacophony of bitten fingertips, chipped nails, callused hands—have made sure to enjoy the spoils of their own petty wars. He is hardly comparable to the conquerors of the past and the dissimilarities extend further into the impersonal and empty decoration of the throne room. There are items of luxury present, sure, but there's nothing there whose loss would pain the new king. There's nothing personal about the smattering of belongings and he could be in a barren room and everything would have been the same to him. He isn't very kingly in that regard—he has no patience for keeping track of the countless victories material or not.  
  
"…you should be sleeping," comes a murmur of not-quite-suggestion from somewhere in front of him. Despite the poor visual recognition offered by his deteriorating eyes, he is certain that Oliver is wearing an anxious expression on his face that doesn't fit the way the two of them interacted in the past that's only really just a couple of days.  
  
"I find it really funny," he starts with a raspy, throaty voice that has no traces of humor whatsoever, "that you seem to think that I care about your suggestions."  
  
"You don't have to care for them," Oliver responds with a calmness that's just dripping apathy all over the dark floor, a mixture of the distance he has cultivated since his youth and the indifference to the way the world regards him, "as long as you do take your rest. You're…" Almost as if he's composing himself, he continues. "You're the most important person in this kingdom."  
  
"I'm the most powerful person in this kingdom," he corrects after spending a moment of snorting derisively, "but I do wonder to whom am I most important then?"  
  
There's a certain pleasure in feeling Oliver's sudden stiffness at the insinuation snaking dangerously around his words. He's never had illusions about the strange electricity that sparks continuously between them, nor has he ever harbored delusions about the deep meaning of the encounters that have connected the two of them with an inexplicably bloodied thread. It does seem extremely inappropriate to bring up the not-closeness the two of them share; that's why he's smirking as though there's a particularly scandalous love affair going on between them.  
  
"…you are the most important person to me."  
  
Blood clotting at the back of his eyes rush up to his brain, triggered by the small whisper of reverence. His eyes widen in a muddle of surprise and disbelief—before he sees Oliver clearer than ever, despite the sorry state of his eyesight. Somehow he understands the next set of words before they even leave the other's lips.  
  
"You're the most important person to me," there's solid conviction behind the repetition, "as you should be to one of your subordinates. You're the most important person to each person in your kingdom, as you should be."  
  
"You're crazy."  
  
"If that's what my king says." Oliver accepts the words diplomatically, complete with an almost diffident bow.  
  
"…In any case, I was going to report the progress about the cabinet members before we got a little sidetracked." Oliver places a stack of folders on the desk nearest to him. He doesn't bother reading out any of the text there; he simply recites his report from memory—an utter display of perfect memorization. It's a talent that's little interesting so he doesn't yawn in earnest while the boring details fill the air around them.  
  
"So everything's going according to plan?" He interrupts once it seems that Oliver is starting to run out of breath from the rapid pace of his mini-speech. He is starting to run out of patience on his end, because watching Oliver display his genius isn't interesting enough to suffer an hour-long lecture for.  
  
"…in summary, yes."  
  
"Then it's fine."  
  
He doesn't plan on ever saying 'I'll entrust this to you' or 'I trust you' or anything that has an ounce of sentimentality in it. Oliver inclines his head a little, lips thinned into a simple line.   
  
…He is the most important person in Oliver's life.  
  
He knows that.  
  
…It's only because he's the only person in Oliver's life now.  
  
He knows that too.  
  
"…alright. I'll be taking my leave then for now. I do hope that when I return later, you're already resting."


End file.
